


Revelations: Into the Depths

by TheLadyFrost



Series: Revelations [1]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gen, Retelling, Revelations, Shameless Smut, buffy homage, jilleon, two parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyFrost/pseuds/TheLadyFrost
Summary: Two unlikely heroes. A devious mastermind with a hidden agenda. A chance meeting and a mission meant for another. It might have been nothing at all...if it wasn't about to be everything. They're playing the greatest game of their entire lives: To stop a virus, save a hero, and uncover a mystery. If they can just survive. We think we know the story - or do we?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> Sure. I have one hundred stories out there. What's one more? Why not? How can I flip it? What will happen? Who am I ditching and who gets their chance to poke their head in where they don't belong? You know how I roll. Everybody gets flipped around for somebody else. Why not?
> 
> I like making things do what I want. Also, I clearly love starting out my stories by setting up the love story. And Terragrigia? It's my stomping ground for that. A great fictional place for so many of my rendezvous. This will build differently than the game. For various reasons.
> 
> It's my favorite weirdo ship. Why? Because I love it. So, there ya go.
> 
> As always, excuse all out of sync pop culture references, uses of cell phones, potential timeline discrepancies or silliness. Suspend that disbelief and enjoy the tale. We set up right out of the gate with some smut, some bad jokes, and some plot building. We'll get to the weird monster killing soon enough.
> 
> Slainte.

Disclaimer: Resident Evil? Not mine. Capcom's. Which saddens me endlessly. But there it is.  
....

PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS  
....

Episode 1: The Terragrigia (Bathroom) Panic  
...

The Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia (Pre-Panic), 2004  
....

The name meant Gray Earth.

A fascinating name for something that was a floating aquapolis and hadn't actually, ever, come from the Earth. Suspended in the ocean, miles from anything to take away the fascination of it, the man-made testament to creationism towered high above the skyline. The flawless bowl of blue that was the Mediterranean meandered lazily as it lapped at the shores of the endless beaches covered in fluffy white sand.

The Federal Bioterror Commission building loomed like a goliath of glass and steel above the teeming coves. People cavorted and laugh, loving the carefree nature that came with organic living. The city was entirely solar powered. It operated as the most ecological city in the world – giving those who could afford the skyrocketing rates for rent and housing, the opportunity to rely only on the power of mother nature to meet their needs.

A beautiful concept that had taken greater than a decade to exact.

The end result was brilliant, flawless, and defended staunchly by those gathered in the FBC building to coordinate cooperation efforts for first, second, and last lines of defense against foreign and domestic threats. As the island existed outside of US borders, it was technically a freestanding entity, but – such as Puerto Rico – was a territory within US control.

The luau, given in honor of interagency mingling, offered the chance for each organization invited to canoodle and blend ideals on how to maintain the efficiency, tourist potential, and safety of the adopted paradise.

The beach was lit with torches. The music was ukulele and slack key guitar. The sounds of Waikaloa drifted over the sunset sands as the orange and red spill of the firey horizon hit the misty water off the shore and sparked like copper and gold.

A rather interesting game of Pass the Coconut had started around the imu -the oven dug into the sand to cook the kalua pig. Pass the Coconut, it seemed, was nothing more than a Hawaiian version of Hot Potato. Whoever had the coconut when the music stopped, was out of the game.

Everything at the luau was eaten by hand. There were no utensils. There were no plates or mess. There was, however, plenty of booze. And plenty of red solo cups. The cocktails were flowing, the conversation was rich and exciting. The dancing was hula and happy and carefree.

It was bare feet and bikinis with wraps. It was bare chests beneath lazily buttoned shirts and khakis. It was swimming trunks and dips in the pearly water and laughter.

For what could generally be a stuffed shirt set of boring bureaucrats and officials, it was also the party of the century.

The dancing was full of flying skirts and kicking sand.

In the flickering torch light, the red head and the brunette met beside the game of Pass the Coconut and laughed, embracing.

The laughter was high for them. The red head, in her tasteful one piece in beautiful orange and her green sarong. The brunette in a pretty blue bikini and a shimmering white cover-up. The little gold bracelet on the ankle of the brunette flickered in the torchlight.

The redhead wore her hair loose and long about her slender shoulders. The brunette wore hers in a low ponytail that curled over her chest. They were both so very different – the pale redhead, the sunkissed brunette, both with eyes in competing shades of blue like the ocean behind them.

They were both very beautiful and turned heads as they laughed and hugged, happy to have found each other.

Both had survived Raccoon City and the longest night of their lives. Both had chosen to pick up the sword and fight the bioterror that had been born in the necropolis left behind.

For Claire Redfield, it was the way of the healer. She'd chosen to arm herself with knowledge and her arsenal was legion. She worked for a company who's only purpose was to help those affected by the stain of bioterror. TerraSave mingled amongst the war machines like a breath of fresh air.

For Jill Valentine, it was the way of the warrior. The girl who's chosen to arm herself with skills in which to beat back the dark. She worked for a company who's only purpose was to fight the blight of disease that blanketed the world around them. She went into the fray with the purpose of protection and destruction. The BSAA was her brainchild, carefully crafted with Claire's brother Chris, and a dozen other people who'd had enough of dirty corporations dealing dirty behind the backs of the unsuspecting public.

Intermingled in the madness, the FBC hobnobbed with the additional support of the US Strategic Command whose primary purpose was to deflect and combat mass terror attacks, weapons of mass destruction, cyber, and bioterror threats.

Jill was sans Chris, as she often was, at these sorts of events. Chris was a fighter. Chris was not, ever, a diplomat. He was as likely to offend someone with his bland sense of humor and no bullshit view on world politics as he was to punch them in the face for being stupid. He was the best in his field in the field, he was the last person on Earth you wanted to go to bat for you in a room surrounded by donors or corporate stooges.

He was charmingly inept at manipulation. He had as much finesse as a fart at a funeral and as little interest in changing as a rock on a mountainside. So, for the sake of propriety, Jill was often the voice and the face of the BSAA when it came to drumming up donations or seeking out patrons.

The laughter on the little landing that was lit by torches and low twinkling lights drew the focus of both women. The raised dais was three deep with women, which, really was the first indicator that something was going on that required immediate attention. Claire looped an arm over Jill and sighed, dramatically, "Naturally."

"What's naturally?"

"Wait for it."

The sounds of pretty music filled the air. The crowd quieted in anticipation. Jill tried to see among the surge of bodies and failed.

A congenial heckler called, "Get on with it already."

And had laughter spreading among the large crowd. Pretty rude way to treat the band, Jill mused, seriously.

Jill lifted a brow and Claire mused, "Keep waiting."

The song brought the crowd closer. The clink of ice in glasses. The rustle sarongs and sandals and sand. And the voice in the dark.

Well, you done done me and you bet I felt it

I tried to be chill, but you're so hot that I melted

I fell right through the cracks

Now I'm trying to get back

Jill glanced at Claire who pursed her lips, "Yep. Heard it."

"He's incredible. Who is it?"

"The song or the singer?"

It didn't matter. The crowd parted enough she could finally see through them.

There was a stool. There was a ukulele. There was a man perched on the stool with bare feet and deconstructed jeans and a cranberry colored ring neck t-shirt happily selling Volcom to the curious viewer. The shirt didn't matter. The chest under it?

Dynamite.

So I won't hesitate

No more, no more.

It cannot wait,

I'm sure.

There's no need to complicate.

Our time is short.

This is our fate,

I'm yours.

The first impression was sheer talent. He was good. Better than, he had an ability to scat with the song that had people laughing and loving him. He was good-natured, charming, engaging and entertaining.

He lifted his head, winking at someone in the crowd, and the other part of the picture was clear here and explained the women lined up like groupies around him.

He was painfully gorgeous.

Jill lifted her brows and Claire said, "Yep. True story."

Claire lifted her cocktail in a salute and the firelight flickered over him as he caught her eye and winked back.

Which, was fine, clearly, they were friends. Claire turned to speak to someone beside her.

All normal. Perfectly, utterly normal. Nothing strange or unusual in any of it.

Save for the staring.

Which sounded odd, and totally was. Someone was staring. Jill, clearly, was staring. But she wasn't alone. He was staring back.

Someone shifted in her way, breaking the eye contact.

She lifted a hand to her chest and found it trembling.

Amused with herself, she sipped her vodka tonic. She turned to answer a question from a gaggle of FBC agents beside her. She wasn't entirely sure why, but she could feel the second the bodies shifted out of her way again.

She turned her head.

Well, open up your mind and see like me,

Open up your plans and damn you're free.

Look into your heart and you'll find that the sky is yours.

So please don't, please don't, please don't...

There's no need to complicate.

'Cause our time is short.

This oh, this oh, this is our fate.

I'm yours.

Still staring. She wondered who was staring harder. It was a good feeling in her belly. And a long time since she'd felt it.

There wasn't a whole lot of time to stop and smell the staring when one was ass deep in bad guys.

The arms were all muscle. The tattoo on his inner forearm was something. Guitar neck? Something. He was only missing a damn earring to look like a pirate turned rock star.

The song ended. He set down the ukulele. He rose from the stool.

The panic hit like a wave. Why? No clue. Jill kinda yelled it, "I'll see ya later, Claire!"

Jill shifted away from the conversation. Claire turned back to see her gone and lifted her brows. She watched the former thief ease through the crowd of bodies and shrugged.

Jill wasn't sure what she was doing. Running? What was she doing here?

She stood toe to toe with hunters and didn't run. She'd faced a tyrant and stuck like glue. She'd been ass deep, literally, in the living dead and she'd hardly flinched.

What was she doing here?

Running from a guy with a ukulele?

Was he going to stare her to death?

Was he going to scat her into a coma? What?

She slipped into the bathroom on the main floor of the FBC building. It was done in shades of blue and steel. She liked it, clearly, as she and the color blue were best friends. A small bench in pretty blue paisley offered you the chance to sit and enjoy yourself.

Alone in the industrial space, she stared at her face over the sink. Pink. Her face was pink. It was warm.

It was the fire clearly and the sun and the heat and the cocktail. She'd had too many. She was lightheaded.

It wasn't the drink. She knew that. She knew it wasn't. She was making excuses.

It wasn't the drink.

It was the staring.

The bathroom door opened and Jill splashed water on her face to cool it down. She leaned up, taking a deep breath.

She wasn't alone in the bathroom anymore.

It wasn't Claire.

And he didn't have his ukulele.

She turned, leaning on the sink until it bit into her back.

She squeaked when she talked and amused him, "This is the girl's bathroom."

"Yeah? Gonna run screaming?"

"….maybe."

He shifted toward her. She considered running.

But that was stupid. He was tall. He was blonde. He was hurt-your-head-gorgeous. He wasn't scary. He wasn't even dangerous. What was she afraid of?

He closed the distance. He pinned her against the sink. She tilted her head back to meet the seafoam swirl of his eyes and she thought, "That. That's what there is to be afraid of."

Her hands unclenched. They lifted and fisted in his shirt.

He ducked and picked her up, easy, effortless. She spilled back on the wide vanity and opened her legs. Just like that.

He stepped into between, she tugged him down to her, and the pleasure of it nearly made her groan into his mouth.

Their tongues swirled, slick and hungry. And there was no more worrying about anything.

She let go of anything but him.

Her hands jerked, whipping at the leather of his belt. His tugged at the ties of her bikini bottoms. She wanted the shirt gone and jerked on it. His hands shifted, reached over his back and ripped it off. He threw it away and dragged her back to him.

His skin was smooth, fevered, muscled and lean. He was all muscle, all refined pecs and abs, and perfection. It was almost ridiculous.

Their mouths popped apart. "You kidding me?"

He tilted his head, panting a little, "What?"

"This?" She gestured to him, "Really?"

She rubbed his belly like she'd smear off the make-up that made it look like Ryan Gosling.

She put her mouth all over him to see if it tasted as good as it looked.

Yep. Taste and touch test approved.

Just to be sure, she tongued his nipple and sucked hard enough to watch his eyes hood.

He dragged her face up to take her mouth. His hands found her slick and wet between her legs. Ready.

The sexiest fucking thing he'd ever put his hands on. She was just ready for it. Just from touching him.

Laughing, he pulled off her cover-up and threw it away. Her bikini came free with a tug of fingers and cloth. Her hands got the zipper of his jeans to give with a metallic scream.

They tumbled, he kicked them free and filled his mouth and hands with her breasts.

The world tilted, fractured, and sort of made no sense. It was insanity or stupidity or single-minded madness that had her in the bathroom at a work function ripping off the clothes of the cover band. But there she was, about to go tits to toes with a musician.

Jill Valentine: Risk Taker.

She wasn't.

Ever.

Among the right people, she was funny and endearing. She was uninterested. She didn't bother with men. She didn't bother with women. She didn't bother with anyone. She and Chris worked in tandem with each other to be professional and keep things from being personal.

This? Not professional. Nope.

Dirty.

Dirty dirty dirty.

One night stands – the staple of the bioterror world. You didn't have time for anything else.

Nothing wrong with banging a musician and getting her world rocked. Nope. Nothing.

Her hands skimmed his hips. His gripped her to angle her to him. She leaned back on the sink and looped her ankles behind his fantastic ass.

He was thick enough he had to work for it. And that worked like a charm. She scrambled and grabbed him, making small sounds in her throat.

Rough, eager, desperate – they surged together wetly. She bucked, gasping and grabbing. He tugged her in to put his tongue in her mouth. And when that wasn't enough for either of them?

He flipped her over on the sink with a clatter of bottles and threw her on her belly. Her hands scrambled, they flattened on the mirror and smeared there. She watched herself, him, them, in the mirror as he jerked her up and mounted her from behind.

All those muscles, that hair, those eyes – she came apart watching him fuck her. It was that simple. She rode back on his body, shouting and slapping. She was uncaged, wild, desperate and drowning in it. His eyes shifted from the shaggy spill of his sweaty hair to watch her face while he filled her up.

Beautiful, he thought wildly, he'd been wrong picturing it. He'd sat there watching her on that stool and knew she'd look like a goddess on his dick.

He'd underestimated her.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen with her eyes hooded and her mouth open and her face flushed with want. Her perfect breasts bounced, her tight little ass slapped back against him as he claimed her.

A goddess, definitely. Holy. She was holy. He was having a revelation being inside of her.

Fisting her ponytail, he turned her face to the side and curled over her back to kiss her.

Good, lots of tongue. She sucked him hungrily, moaning.

And she gave it back like she took it, harder and faster and louder than he'd had it in a long time.

It was the wildest thing she'd ever done. Hands down.

She had never, in her entire life, gone deep dicking with a man she'd never met. Who was he? She had no idea.

And she didn't care.

Which was totally unlike her.

And since it was just sex. Since it was just fantasy. Since it was just this one time? She commanded him.

"Harder."

Yep. Beautiful. Holy.

His arm caught her waist and flipped her over. He threw her to the little bench against the wall and came down atop her. Her legs braced on the floor, her arms flew over her head to hold on to the bench and he tried to plow her until she was blood and guts on the floor.

The bench jerked, it slid, it hit the wall and slapped. Jill twisted her fingers in his hair to rape his mouth. Merciless. She bit him and had him laughing, anchoring his muscled arms around hers to hold her down and slam into her harder, harder, until she screamed – once- high and loud and came so wetly that it soaked them both.

Jesus Christ, he thought desperately, she was lava. She burned him everywhere she touched. He hammered her through it, jerked her up into his arms and spilled her over his lap on the bench. She whipped, boneless, and landed on him to ride him like she'd kill him.

Her hands grabbed his and threw them over his head against the wall. She bound him there, slapping, slipping, snapping her hips and rolling. She rode, she rocked, she whipped him into a frenzy that brought his mouth up for the flavor of hers in a kiss as wet as they were.

Her breasts bounced, they begged, and he covered them with his eager mouth as she went wild atop him.

Perfect, Jill thought again, the bunch of his stomach muscles and all those exquisitely hard curves of him. Lats and delts and biceps and hips. He was amazing. Lean and honed and hungry for it.

So she gave it to him. She fucked him so madly that he'd never forget her. Ever.

He could go a hundred years and fuck a hundred chics and he'd never forget this one.

He gasped, watching her, wanting her, feeling like he'd waited half his life to fuck her. "Harder."

Shit.

She craved him. She let go of his hand with one of hers and slapped him, bringing his breath in a heavy, excited pant. "That it? I said harder."

Her hand curled around his throat, nails digging. He laughed and opened his mouth for her tongue.

She dropped, she ground on him so hard it had her bucking and tossing like the sea beyond the tower where they took each other, and his hands jerked out of hers. He grabbed her throat, thrilling her, and grabbed her hip to hold her there.

Her eyes locked with his. She saw the question on him.

Dangerous and stupid to let him do it. Dangerous and stupid to let him do any of it.

He grunted, rolling his hips and hissed, "You want it?"

And Jill grabbed his face and jerked him to her to fill his mouth with her tongue. "Give it to me."

Yep. BEAUTIFUL.

He gave it to her. All of it. Stupid. And usually how you ended up on an MTV reality show with a brood of brats and a pissed off witch of a woman after your paycheck. But whatever.

He simply did not care.

He ground her down on him and came in her, cursing, while she wetly tongued his mouth.

Smooth now, sexy, and slick. The cavern of her amorous little mouth waited for him to please it. So, he did, rolling his tongue with hers as his hands kneaded her little butt to swirl her on top of him.

Like what? She thought. Like he was mixing his juices inside of her?

Holy hell. Why was that kind of disgusting thing so hot?

Her fingers twisted in his hair, rolling their mouths over each other.

There was a knock on the door that went unanswered.

She leaned back, shaking, and saw the tremor answered on him.

Breathlessly, Jill whispered, "Who are you?"

And he laughed, soft and tremulous. His hands softened, smoothed, soothed and brought her back to him to kiss her slow and hungry. It went on forever – all gliding and stroking now. All gentle and sweet somehow.

His fingers slid against their bodies and mingled where they were joined, stroking her, feeling himself inside of her.

Again, she thought, what the fuck was it that made it so hot!?

Her hand slipped down to join his, feeling the smooth press and retreat of him into her.

She opened her eyes and was caught, like that, in his. He watched her face while he slid out and in again, still half hard, still hungry.

Their fingers twined to feel the mating of it. She gasped, against his mouth, transfixed, "Oh, god."

Yep. Holy.

His pants started jingling. The knock on the door was more insistent now.

And the voice called, "Jill? You alive in there?"

She was more alive than she'd ever been.

He tilted his head, stroking her. She didn't get off him. She quaked atop him. Jill leaned him back against the wall, pinning him, licking his mouth.

He breathed, "Are you, Jill?"

Was she Jill? Or was she alive? She was both.

And she laughed. She just laughed.

Because they were enraptured without a clue who the other one was. He leaned forward and she clasped his face to her chest and watched him tongue her breasts while he slid in and out of her.

"I swear to god, Jill, I'm not playing. What the fuck are you doing in there?"

The better question was who the fuck was she doing in there. But that was beyond the point.

He bit down on her breast and stole her breath, "Send her away."

Jill trembled. He lifted his head to her mouth. She put his arms over his head again to stroke slide up and down on him. She kept their mouths together, eyes open, entranced.

"Jill...I'm getting someone to open the door if you don't answer me."

After a long, tongue swirling moment, she slid off his lap.

She was shaking like a leaf. "I..I'm fine. Hold on ok? I'm not decent."

She hurried now, moving to slip back on her bikini. He was something. He kept on sitting there, naked, fucking gorgeous, used, and careless about it.

"Jill?" Beyond the door again.

Jill hurried, slipping on her cover-up. She tossed his clothes to him. "You gonna keep sitting there until I let her in?"

"Maybe. You afraid she'll find me in here and figure it out?"

"Maybe." Amused, she pulled him up and pushed him into a stall.

He let her. He was simply too delighted with her to care. She shoved his clothes into his hands and put a finger to her lips, "SHHHHH."

Oh, she was something alright.

He bit her finger. She started to close the door, hesitated, and hooked an arm around his waist to drag him to her. They petted and kissed and played wetly with each other until another knock had her jumping and shoving him away.

"No! SHH! Stay...right there! I mean it!"

Entertained, he let her close him in and stood there listening as she ran to the door to let in the other girl.

There were two pairs of pretty feet now he could see under the stall door.

He slipped on his jeans and waited, listening to them talk.

The one named Jill, potentially, laughed, "Sorry. I was..uh…dropping a deuce."

Yep. She was something.

Grinning, he leaped onto the back of the toilet and perched, listening to them unabashedly.

"Umm….gross? And definitely TMI."

"Ha. Right. It's the taba root. Gets me every time. You ready to get back to the party?"

"Sure. What happened to your neck!?"

He peeped in the crack of the door, watching them. The brunette glanced at herself in the mirror and slapped a hand over the ring of hickeys forming there. "Oh…lord…hah…I must've…uh…"

The back of the redhead was all he could see. She started laughing, high and delighted, "You WHORE! What did you do!?"

"Nothing!" Squeaked maybe, Jill.

"Liar! Better question: WHO did you do!?"

"Nobody!" Jill grabbed her arm, shot a look at the stall, and likely saw his eye peeping at them. She shook her head and tugged, shoving her toward the door. "Let's go! Now now now. Not a word. Not a word. Not a word. I mean it."

The bathroom opened. The bathroom closed.

He leaned on the toilet seat, tapping his foot where he was perched…and he just started laughing.

It was the best time he'd ever had, hands down, in a bathroom.


	2. Chapter 2

PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS  
...

Episode 2: Double (The Dumb Stick) Mystery  
....

The Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia (Pre-Panic), 2004  
....

A little bit of coverup and a clever little-pinstriped pants suit later, Jill found herself at the conference the next morning sitting with a dozen other department heads hashing out plans for recruitment.

She was flipping through file folders and determining which candidates to interview when the door opened and three more suits came in. Black on white on boring.

Jill glanced up, looked back at her pile, and kept flipping.

Clive O'Brian, the operational head of the BSAA, was at the front of the table with Morgan Lansdale, the head of the FBC. Beside them, the director of operations for the British Intelligence Agency MI6 Blaire Steward was showing them something in a big fat file folder.

And O'Brian said, "That's what I think too. I could use a second opinion on it. Jill?"

She glanced up, curious.

"Could you coordinate with USSTRATCOM on the rumors about Il Veltro? We need to work all the angles here. Intel suggests something big brewing. At this point-"

"Two heads are better than one?" Jill queried, rising with her files.

O'Brian shook his head and his handsome face looked tired. Lansdale resembled more of angry, hairy-faced ferret with too much teeth. Steward was pretty if a bit severe, with a graying bun and a no-nonsense stingy mouth.

"We need hydra actually. Eight heads are better than four."

Jill glanced at the boring suits standing by the wall. All sunglasses and Men in Black. Yawn.

She smiled politely. "Sure. Who's your lead agent?"

The tallest one, a female, gestured with her head.

Jill rolled her eyes and passed by her into the hallway.

Three people were gathered by the water fountain laughing and sharing pretzels. A little girl was in the massive lobby staring at the twenty-foot sculpture of the FBC symbol spilling bubbling water in pink and green into the flawless pool made of Italian tile beneath it. Her mother was on her phone, chattering away to someone.

Jill scanned the lobby for the suit that would be taking up the next hour of her life and a voice behind her, sounded beautifully amused, queried, "Jill Valentine?"

She turned.

She froze.

She dropped her files.

They scattered everywhere. All over the floor.

And her booty call stuck out his hand in a three thousand dollar Gucci suit without the jacket. Dove gray. Lovely. The vest, the pristine baby blue shirt beneath, the dark blue and gold tie neatly knotted, the shirtsleeves rolled up his perfect forearms and topped off by a Tag Heuer worth more than three months rent in her apartment.

Her booty call wasn't a musician. Her booty call was-

"I'm Kennedy. Leon S. Kennedy, USSTRATCOM Special Services Division."

He was an agent.

An agent that looked like Keith Urban with shaggy hair and big blue eyes and had the worlds most perfect teeth. No earring. He was missing the earring. Something told her he'd probably had one at some point. He was just that type of guy.

The type who played guitar and shot whiskey and wore cowboy boots with expensive jeans.

And fucked like a well-paid whore with a tattoo of a Gibson guitar headstock and neck on his left inner forearm. She was pretty sure he had an arctic wolf tattooed on his right upper biceps. Pretty sure. She hadn't checked the wolf close enough…she'd been too busy sucking his face.

So she was just going with best guess on that.

In the grand scheme of colossal and horrifyingly terrible sexual decisions, this might be the worst she'd ever made. She had, inadvertently, shat where she ate.

He crouched, smiling slyly, and gathered up her fallen papers.

She was still, embarrassingly frozen, staring at him.

He gestured with the folder. He tossed his hair as he did it. His seafoam eyes twinkled at her.

And she finally answered him.

"YES, I AM JILL VALENTINE."

…..oh dear god.

Oh, dear God in Heaven.

She was wrong. She was WRONG. She had not just shouted in the lobby of the FBC building. That did NOT happen.

Across the lobby, everyone was frozen staring at her.

Nope. It was true. She'd shouted it.

Her face turned beet red. His eyes were wide and bright.

And then? He just…grinned. He grinned.

She grabbed the folders roughly. His grin was wolfish and thrilled.

And she hissed, desperately, "You are NOT a musician."

Curious, he tilted his head, "Did I say I was?"

"You…should NOT follow girls into bathrooms and..and…and..." She glanced around desperately and grabbed his arm, jerking him slightly into the shadow behind a big fern, "…and…do..what you did to me in said bathroom…"

She was so making it worse here.

She was.

He tilted his head back again, like a dog or something, entertained by her. "I shouldn't?"

"No!"

"Me? Just me? Me alone?"

Lord.

She poked his chest a little with her jabbing finger. "Yes…yes. YES." She hissed it loudly, "You…you…are the problem. You are. You. I…was drunk."

There. That seemed like a reasonable excuse. His brows winged up. She tossed her curly hair, sticking to her guns. "Yes. I was…very drunk. And didn't know what was happening. And you..just…"She made a swooping gestured with her hand and a vampire bite face and had him giving her those owl eyes again, "Yep. You did that. Swoop. You swooped."

"I swooped?"

"Yes. You just…swooped right in and just…put your hand in my bikini and just…took advantage of me."

There. Yep. That's exactly how it went. Her memory was clear on that. All him.

Special Agent-not-musician and notorious lothario liar, Leon Kennedy intoned, drolly, "I swooped in and took advantage of you while you were drunk?"

"Yes. That's…" She shifted, "Exactly how it happened. I…I am a professional! I don't do that kinda thing at work functions…with…guitar players…but I was…ya know…just a little…"

"Hot for it?"

"No!" She hissed it, twice, "No! I don't get "hot for it", you filthy mouthed man, I was...confused...and...lonely...and just..." His hair was in his eyes. Why was his fucking hair always in his eyes!? It made him look like...what? Like something you fucked in a bathroom and giggled over to your girlfriends later.

NOT an agent. Agents didn't have hair like that. She added, "You have girl hair!"

And had him grinning, "Do I?"

"You do! You look like...a girl." THERE. That was mean. Ha. She was mean.

And he added, "Hmm. Do I fuck like one?"

Her brain...just - plop. Fizzle. She stammered, "Eh...what? What? Who? What does that have to do with-just...this is not PROFESSIONAL."

God, she was amazing. Amazing. She was flustered and nervous and adorable. He wanted to touch her, a little, and he rarely stopped his impulses. "Yeah. I'm not. A little thing you should probably know about me."

"...wh-what's that?" He was always STARING. Why was he always staring? Her brain said: "Girl, you're staring back."

Ok. True, kinda, but not in the same way. Nope. She was staring at him like he might be a slice of pizza to a starving girl. Totally different. Oy.

"I don't give a shit about rules."

She muttered, shaking a little, "...you-this-that's-god damnit, rules are in place for a reason."

"Yep. To make life boring."

"No..that's...not...what are you doing there?"

He shifted. She felt her heart hammer. And he pressed her back into the shadow of the wall and put his nose behind her ear.

Her brain said: "How is this helping?"

And she hissed, "I am not this girl!"

But she tilted her head to his mouth. It skimmed over her jaw and down her throat. He pressed a kiss into the hollow above her suit and had her shaking a little. "I am not that kind of girl, sir, I…tell…you…"

She put her hands in his hair and nipped his chin. What the hell was wrong with her!?

He queried, quietly, "This isn't professional, Jill."

"Shut up...idiot."

His mouth shifted and settled over hers. The top of her head threw brains and good intentions all over the wall behind her. And she moaned.

She moaned.

She moaned at work. She moaned in the FBC building behind a plant and let Leon Kennedy grope her.

That's it. That's what she did.

Her mouth popped audibly off his, panting a little, "That-how-what-" Gathering her thoughts, she pressed a hand to his chest, "How is this helping!?"

"You drunk?"

"….no."

"It's helping." He nuzzled her face and had her groaning a little. She dropped the files again and murmured.

"Ok. Just one time. Just one. Ok? One."

"Sure. One. Yep."

Her arms looped. Her hands slid into his hair. He guided her fully against the wall and leaned into her with his hands splayed like a push up on the wall around her.

They sank together, sucking face like two people in a bathroom about to get it on.

Her hands were on his vest and tugging. She was all over his belly and touching his abs under the crisp blue shirt.

Her earrings jingled musically as he tried to eat her alive.

The sound of conference room opening spilled voices around them. Jill was oblivious. She was three seconds into sucking his tongue and five away from putting her hands in his pants.

There was a loud hiss of sound and a rather angry curse.

Jill realized after about eight seconds that she was still closed eyed and groping but that he was still in her arms. Her eyes opened. He was still leaning over her. His mouth was rosy and his eyes were all kinds of bright amusement.

Because over his left shoulder was Claire Redfield, watching them in horror and half muted rage.

He leaned a little closer to Jill's flaming face and whispered, "Don't make any sudden movements. If you go still, sometimes it won't see you."

Jill felt her head swirl. Interestingly enough?

She was still stroking his tie in her hand.

Claire coughed, loudly, and Jill dropped the tie like it had burned her.

Leon pressed a smooth kiss to her mouth and had her leaning up for more.

And Claire grabbed his belt and jerked him back while he laughed. "That's enough of that. You're done, Don Juan. See ya."

Unflappable, Leon winked at Jill over her shoulder as he stepped back, "I'll just go grab a cup of coffee while you two girls catch up. Jill? Something hot for ya?"

Claire gave him the finger over her shoulder and had him hooting out a laugh as he wondered to the Starbucks built into the lobby.

Jill was still frozen, staring blindly at Claire.

The redhead tilted her head one way, tilted it back, and mused. "Jillian Amie Valentine – what the hell are you doing!?"

It was a good question.

There was no easy answer.

But it was a good question.

Jill blinked a little, considering it. "I might have a brain tumor."

"You might have no brain at all!" Claire crouched and picked up all her files, "What the fuck was that!?"

Jill took the files and her gaze wandered over Claire's shoulder. He had a double tall latte or something his hand. He was leaning on the counter while the little barista ran around giggling and giving him free scones.

He turned his head, caught her looking, and winked.

Jill jumped like he'd slapped her ass.

"I…what? I was doing nothing. Nothing. I was just standing here! He -I- it was him."

Claire gave her narrowed eyes. "It was him?"

"It was! I said no." Jill wasn't entirely sure who's hand was up her ass using her like a puppet to speak these lies, "I said no. And he just…swooped."

"He swooped?"

"He did! He's a swooping bat …man. He just swoops and starts with the kissing…and the winking…and the…BREATHING."

Yep. She shouted it.

Claire blinked. She looked like Jill had grown a second ugly head that was fifteen and gushing on the football Captain. "Who are you!?"

Jill slapped a hand to her breastbone and it was feverishly warm. She laughed, shaking with it, "I don't have a fucking clue…not a clue. But…holy god it feels good."

"Clearly."

"Kennedy right? From Raccoon City?"

"….the same."

"You and he? You…you're…not…or you are? Or what?"

Girl code. Easily broken by another girl. Claire shook her head, "No. We're not. At all. Ever. He's not my type."

Jill felt her gaze shift again. He was straddling a chair, his arm draped over the back, his Italian leather loafer tapping. The shirt sleeve showed that Gibson on his arm to the pretty speckled sunlight. It gilded his hair a pretty red blonde. He was doing that thing again.

Staring.

He was staring.

Why was he always staring!?

Claire smacked her lightly and Jill snapped back into her head. "Sorry. Shit. What the hell is wrong with me?"

Taking pity on her, Claire mused, "Ok. He's hot. He's really fucking hot. It can be a shock at first, I admit. But Jill…"

Jill was staring at him as he sipped his coffee and tilted his head at her.

"Jill?"

He licked his bottom lip to make sure he got it all. She wondered if the coffee was caramel or something. Maybe mocha? It probably tasted better on that mouth than in the damn cup.

"Jill!" Claire shook her and sighed, "It's bad. This is really bad. You've been struck with deep dick desire syndrome."

Jill blinked, shaking like a dog out of water. "What now? What's this?"

"It's what happens when you get hooked on a hot dude. It happened to me once with this guy at work. Horrible mess. Brutal. Awful. He was married and I didn't know. He lied. He chased me around and we ended up fucking in the back of a Ford Bronco…which…" Claire stared off into space for a minute, "I heard he got divorced recently…I should call him…"

"Claire!" Jill snapped her fingers and the redhead blinked, "Focus."

"Sorry. Shit. There ya go. That's what happens. You're hooked on his dick. You need to go far away from it and detox. It'll suck. But you'll survive it."

Jill was pretty sure he was gonna eat the scone. He was gonna eat it soon. She was waiting for it.

Claire sighed dramatically and stepped in her way. "Jill…Kennedy? He's great. Hilarious. Tits in a fight. He's friendly and self-sacrificing and superb under pressure. I've never seen anybody fight like him. Ever. He's handsome and charming and sings like a Rockstar."

Jill sighed dramatically, "This isn't helping."

"Ok. Right. The bad stuff…he's a man whore."

Jill blinked, eyes flipping to her face. "A what?"

"He's a man whore. Big time. He hits it and quits it on anything in a skirt. Look at him. Seriously? Yeah. He's the lothario of the bioterror world. There isn't a girl alive that hasn't ridden that train. Excluding me. Which, conversely, is why he and I are still good friends." Claire felt a little bad about trash talking Leon. She did. He was a great dude. And he wasn't even all that bad. But Jill was a good girl.

A GOOD GIRL.

And good girls did NOT want to get involved with Leon Kennedy.

So, there was no harm in playing up how slutty he was. It would turn Jill off. She'd move on. He'd be fine and find himself a nice bad girl to chase around…like Ada Wong…the viperous bitch in red…and all would be well again.

Claire patted her arm, companionably. "Just…stay away ok? He's like catnip for skanks. He's bad news. He'll fuck you, break your heart, and leave you pregnant, alone, and weeping in a corner somewhere."

Lord, she really felt bad about it. She did. He wasn't a bad guy. He didn't use girls like that…often. Sometimes, sure, but who didn't in their business? He was a straight shooter though. He flirted, he hit it when it suited, but everybody knew the rules.

She was making him into a total villain here.

But it was for the best.

Jill looked so disenchanted that Claire actually felt the sting of guilt about it. But at least she wasn't staring at him like he might be crack, and she was ready to get high and stay that way forever.

Jill patted her arm and nodded a little, sobering up. "Right. Right. Stupid to get involved like that right?"

"Oh yeah. And tank your career for a piece of ass? No. Don't do it. Think of him like…a Van Gogh or something."

"Priceless? Exquisite? One of a kind?"

Claire winced. "No…if you get too involved with him? You'll probably end up with nothing but a straight jacket and a missing ear."

….shit.

Jill sighed and shook herself. "Right. RIGHT. Thank you. Got it. No dick is worth soiling your reputation and ending up a blithering, slobbering mess in a nuthouse."

"Exactly. Stay off his nuts. Trust me."

"Got it. Rule One: Do not fuck Leon Kennedy." Again. She added that part silently. Again. Right.

First time didn't count. It didn't. She didn't KNOW it was Leon Kennedy.

Her brain said:…what? How does that even make sense? Would it have mattered?!

The lying answer was: YES. Without question. I have integrity.

The honest one was: Nope. Not a bit. But you'd have known what to scream out while he was hammering you into the sink.

Her brain transmitted that image to her loins. And there she was, slapping back on him like a hungry bitch in heat and screaming, "Fuck me HARDER LEON S. KENNEDY."

To Claire, she queried, "What's the S for?"

"Scott."

"Right."

And her brain added that to the imagine: "FUCK ME HARDER LEON SCOTT KENNEDY!"

Lord.

Jill mused, "It's not for Stud?"

"….really?"

"Sex machine?"

"….how many more do you have?"

"A couple. Smooth operator?"

"Bye Jill. See you at the send off party tonight. Stay off his nuts!"

"Sweet tongue? Suck and fuck?"

"I mean it, Jill. MAN WHORE!"

And Claire had shouted that across the lobby as she walked. Jill felt her face flame. She murmured madly under her breath and went toward the table with her files.

She could do this. She could do this.

She could do this.

And Leon S. Kennedy called out, "Claire, you sweet talker! You used my secret codename!"

Claire was laughing as she headed into the elevator. It was hard not to. Charming he was. Hands down. Without even trying.

Jill sat at the table across from him. He eyed her with a small smile.

And she finally said, "I would like to apologize for my previous behavior."

Oh, his face was something, part surprise, part massive amusement. "Oh? Which part?"

She gave him a bored expression.

"The kissing?"

"Yes. That."

"But not the part where you used me like your own personal dildo?"

Jill choked on her coffee. It burned. She wheezed. Someone looked over and Leon patted her back roughly to help her.

She slapped his hand away, face red, choking and fuming, "You're an odious man."

Grinning, Leon picked up one of the files on the table. "I'm not at all. I am, however, entirely too unaware of when to lay off the jokes. So, I'll apologize for teasing you. Does that suit you, Ms. Valentine?"

She eyed him narrowly, "It does. Thank you. Can we, please, try to be professional here?"

A Gallic shrug. "Why not?"

"Thank you. The first file has the only known information from various sources on Il Veltro."

Leon skimmed it and she watched his face change. He was learning it. He was processing it. He shifted from charming playboy to dedicated soldier easily enough. "Il Veltro – Italian for the Greyhound. Their symbol, naturally. What's their core motto?"

"Virtue by Cleansing."

"Right. They believe that mankind is morally bankrupt."

"Yes." Jill shifted and gestured to a passage in the file. Her hand brushed his arm. Her fingers tingled but she kept her face blank. He was watching her differently now. All business.

She did the same. "We have little information on members. There's documentation supporting a Professor Jack Norman and a few leads indicating subordinates that could have infiltrated the government on various levels."

Leon leafed papers, nodding, "Conspiracy."

"Easily. And widespread. Someone on the inside is feeding them intel."

"Without question. What do we know about the target?"

"Unclear. Some reports suggestion global, but they're not big enough. Not yet. A few years from now, given the right Judas in our midst, absolutely. But now? They're small time. City based. Big city, would be my guess."

Leon nodded, scanning information, "D.C.?"

"Possible but not probable. It's not 9-11. It won't be that direct. My guess is they will hit somewhere known for sin and corruption. A cleansing would need to take place somewhere they would consider dirty."

Leon lifted his eyes to her, rolling ideas around in his head, "Vegas."

"Oh, definitely a possibility. Atlantic City. San Francisco."

Leon tilted his head at her, "A.C., sure I see that. But why San Francisco?"

"It's a hub of the gay community. A group like this? They'll target homosexuals as perverts. Without question."

And there it was, Jill thought, that look on his face again. Like she'd said something fascinating that he hadn't thought of. Under the teasing glint in his eyes now was something steely and cold and smart. Practically a genius, his bio read like a who's who of espionage and intelligence. He was the Sydney Bristow of the bioterror world. He simply bested everything he touched.

"And same sex marriage is on the docket again for federal approval."

"You bet. Always. Eventually, it'll happen."

"Bring it. What's the hold up anyway?" He saluted the cause with his coffee and had her tilting her head at him. Amused, he grinned at her, "Marriage is a corrupt institution. It's for people looking to fake like they'll be happy tied to the same person for the rest of their life. I say let anybody who wants to jump on that bandwagon, learn the hard way how much it sucks."

Right. Man whore.

Who was she kidding here?

She rose, gathering her files. "Put some calls into your people to see if we can find anything to pinpoint an attack radius."

"Happy to." He eyed her casually, "Off to enjoy the weather?"

Jill shrugged, "Actually I have a date."

With Quint Ketcham – the least likely guy to ever get a date – seeing as he was as charming as sandpaper in your ass crack and missing the necessary filter to avoid offending everyone he met. And they were meeting to discuss field ops development of the BSAA's new golden child: The Genesis. But that was not necessary to the conversation.

Leon lifted his brows, smirking, "Oh yeah? Big bathroom meeting later?"

Jill considered him narrowly. He kept on smiling at her. She said, casually, "Nope. That's where I have boring sex with narcissistic losers."

Oh, his face. It killed her. He burst out laughing. It was a good fucking laugh. It had her smiling just a little in return.

Leon gestured to the coffee he'd bought for her. "Christ, you're something. Stay. Drink your cappuccino. I'll let you make fun of me all day."

He was a tempting thing. Unflappable. He was so good natured it was in his damn bones.

Jill shook her head, rolling her eyes, "There's plenty of girls looking to get treated like an easy lay in the bathroom around here, Mr. Kennedy. Don't waste your time with this one. That's all done for us. Let's just stick to business."

Curious, he grinned at her, "What's with the uptight shit? You were all over me ten minutes ago."

Jill shifted, and finally shrugged, "Well, I received intel regarding your…personal exploits that have since changed my mind about you. So, let's just try to pretend last night…did not happen. Consider it a professional courtesy."

Leon kept his brow aloft, "New intel?"

"Hmm. Well known in fact." She did take the cappuccino though. No reason to waste great coffee. "From a solid source."

Leon licked his teeth, eyes twinkling, "Ah. Claire. What did she say?"

"Nothing that isn't well known, I assure you. You like your booze."

"True."

"You like your guns."

"Without question."

"You fuck anything in a skirt."

Ah. That's what it was. Jealousy. Pursing his lips, he seemed reflective, "Not entirely true. That guy over there? Totally wearing a skirt."

Jill considered this. "Is that a man?"

"Hah. Yes. The adam's apple gives it away."

"Hmm. Shame. He has better legs than I do."

Leon lowered his gaze. He lifted it from foot to face and had her blushing. "Hmm. We'll agree to disagree."

"Well…anyway…I'm interested in being your flavor of the month. So, let's just leave it as it was. A good time. And a one time." She stacked her folders in her arms. "If you'll excuse me."

"Not interested."

She paused, blinking, "What?"

"You said interested. I'm assuming you meant not interested."

Oh. Hah. Oh, well shit on a stick. Freudian slip? What? Her face was blank. Her mind? Laughing at her. And she said, "Yep. Precisely. As you can see, I'm not wearing a skirt, so your reputation is meaningless here. Mr. Kennedy."

Considering, Leon called, "Jill?"

She stopped, eyeing him a little over her shoulder.

And he added, "You weren't wearing a skirt last night either."

Asshole.

She gave him the stink eye and kept on walking.

Sitting in his chair, Leon was pretty sure he'd never met anyone like her before. She was all fantastic fucking in a compact little package with a smart mouth and something hot and untapped in her. It excited him to watch her walk. She swayed and didn't even have to try.

Her perfect ass haunted him like a poltergeist.

She stopped at the lobby doors and there was a little Weasley looking dude waiting for her. He nearly bowed when he talked. And he talked a lot. He bounced like an excited Tigger and was two inches, maybe, shorter than her in her heels. He took the files and looked thrilled to do it.

She laughed.

Whatever he said? It made her laugh. And her hand touched his arm.

Ok.

Seriously!?

Leon laughed loudly, drawing attention. That guy!?

He looked like the kinda dude you stuffed in a locker or ran up a flagpole by his underwear after the big game. That dude!? She had a date with Dr. Doofenschmirtz?

Aloud, he mused, "What kind of fucking alternate reality has a dude like that with a girl like her?"

At the next table, a guy leaned over and laughed, "We're on the same page, brother. Weird Science shit huh? Maybe he "made" her."

A giggling little thing at the counter remarked, "I think she's blind or retarded. She was so mean to you!"

Ha. So, yeah. That was true. He caught his reflection in the glass table. Objectively, he was a good looking dude. Maybe not Ryan Gosling (who? Chics were always comparing his body to that dude). But he could hold his own.

He could do eleven different kinds of martial arts. He could headbutt a pile of two-by-fours and break them. He'd had a fist fight with a licker and won. He was tall, put together, and well hung (not that he was comparing.) He had more money than your average porn star. He threw down like he'd been paid to do it. He was a catch.

And he'd seen some shit in his day, no lie there.

He'd once see a man eat himself. Head to ass, munching crunching, and done. He'd once fallen out of a helicopter and landed in a swimming pool filled entirely with cream cheese. He'd once rode a cow to safety in the middle of a burning jungle.

He'd once challenged Chris Redfield to a bull riding contest in Austin versus a mean-eyed bull named TheSperminator (eighteen stitches, bitches, who's the tough guy now!?) Redfield, might, possibly, have won that dual.

During a lap dance in Canada (he was human, he got lonely and, to be fair, in the Great White North they stripped down to their beaver pelt) he'd fallen asleep (he was also way overworked, and usually half drunk when he wasn't.) The stripper robbed him, tied him up, and took his favorite keychain (R.I.P. Scrooge McDuck). Luckily – he'd had nothing but eight bucks in Canadian money, a loonie, a toonie, and a token from Dave and Busters. He had left his government issue I.D. at home. Thank god.

He took a nap on a bus once with his head on the shoulder of transvestite hooker (he said his name was Heather and was nice enough to show Leon how to cross-stitch before the nap).

He went to a lan (eh?) party for Halo with Claire once and hooked up with an emo chic that spent three months writing bad poetry on his Facebook page about the color of his aura, his "blackened and shriveled heart", and his soulless meandering presence that reminded her of Edgar Allen Poe resulting in him being called, around the office, The Tell Tale Fart or The Craven.

He'd once gone into a hostile zone with nothing but a handgun, a pack of gum, and two cigarettes. (He still mourned the gum they'd taken and someone had stolen and peed on, his favorite jacket there).

He'd seen and done some dumb shit in his time.

But this? A walking wet dream like that picking a snickering, slobbering, stupid faced monkey over him?

Oh, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was the strangest shit he'd ever seen.

And that was saying something.


	3. Ghosts of Velcro

PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS  
....

Episode 3: Ghosts of Velcro  
......

The Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia (Pre-Panic), 2004  
.....

"So, if you click on this and pull here," Quint demonstrated how to store a sample in the vacuum sealer of the Genesis, "You can actively collect data and upload simultaneously."

Jill nodded, encouraged by the functionality of the device.

Admittedly, she was thrilled with what the money infused by Tricell had done for the BSAA. It was giving them the ability to, finally, create weapons to stop the infected beyond zombies. Chris was, actively, working in conjunction with field ops and tech supply to create ammunition specific to B.O.W.S. In an homage to their greatest nemesis, the Albert-001 would be the first gun created to house bullets with genetic components aimed, entirely, at mutated DNA.

Jill clapped him on the back, laughing with delight when Quint demonstrated the Genesis' ability to process the environment and reveal credible threats, infection to mutation ratios, heat signatures, and vital signs of anything in its general vicinity.

She breathed, with reverence, "Now we'll know…when we go in…if the place is hostile. Before we ever set boots on the ground, we'll know what we're in for."

Quint grinned, thrilled with her response, "You bet- Better than that? If you click here and here," He threw a virtual map on the wall for her and it showed the entire blueprint of the building they were in. It also mapped out varying escape routes, showed ductwork and the likelihood of escape via sewer lines, and showed the names of all the people within a block radius from where they stood.

Jill blinked, watching the names light up. "How?"

"Anyone that has been DNA mapped is accessible by the Genesis. You get a lot of feedback here, because, hello! We all work for organizations that map us on a regular basis looking for mutations. But it wouldn't be so clear in a public setting with your average Tom, Dick, or Harry."

She grabbed his arm, squeezing, "But it would show us Albert Wesker."

They held eyes over the map on the wall and Quint agreed, grinning, "Yep. Without question. The bossman? THRILLED. Balls-in-your-ass-deep-dicking-a-diva thrilled."

"Oh, I bet he was." She could see his face the second he realized it. They were SO CLOSE. They had all the keys now. They just needed to find the lock to turn them in.

She breathed, "Your time is up, Wesker. Keep running. Keep hiding…coward."

Quint was grinning, "I done good?"

She squeezed his arm again, laughing, "Oh, oh oh-oh, so good. I knew in the interview you were a gold mine. Chris wasn't sure since you had as much professionalism as Beavis and Butthead…but….I knew. This is what you had in you."

She turned and hugged him so spontaneously that he squeaked and grabbed her to hold on.

As a testament to the fact that he kinda loved her? He didn't even grope her.

Quint glanced at the map on the wall and squeaked again, "Whoa! WHOA! I gotta be wrong here."

"What's that?" Jill leaned from hugging him and glanced at the map.

"It says...but...it can't really be him right? Is he HERE!? I thought he'd be, you know, like ass deep in alligators in the Congo or something..."And Quint squeaked, "NOT WRONG! SIR!"

Lord, he shouted it.

Jill jumped and turned.

Sir, indeed.

Quint was bowing and scraping like a fanboy. Why?

Notorious man-whore-and-possibly-fake-agent Leon Kennedy was coming toward them. Oy. Jill kept her face blank but arched a brow.

And Quint shouted it again, "GOOD TO MEET YOU, SIR! HUGE-HUGE FAN!"

Highly amused, eyes twinkling, Leon shook hands with the excited Tigger. He also glanced at Jill and winked causing her to roll her eyes. "Hey, guy?"

"YES SIR!"

Leon laughed, and patted his arm, "Ease down. It's ok. You're shouting. You're scaring those kids over there with it. So just…dial back a tiny bit."

Quint flushed bright red and laughed, heehawing a little, "So sorry. Ah. Hah. I -you know-have no filter."

Leon patted his shoulder with sympathy and moved over to look at the map on the wall. He brushed right by her to do it, which…was utterly unnecessary. But she didn't shift away either so…who was the idiot here?

But he wasn't looking at her. He was staring…why was he always staring!?...at the wall.

The captivation on his face was paramount. She was enthralled with him like he was with the damn wall. Annoyed, Jill followed his line of sight and Leon spoke, almost reverently, "What is this?"

Quint bounced over, doing the pee-pee dance, "The Genesis! I MADE IT!"

Leon lifted his brows again and Quint backpedaled a little, "Sorry. Sorry, sir. Sorry."

"No, sir. Just Leon." Leon gestured with his head, "You've mapped the area using genetic build and composition?"

What now? Jill listened. She did.

She didn't understand the next five minutes of nerd lingo. But she listened.

Quint used big words that made her wince. He talked about genetic mapping and DNA and chromosomes.

She lost him halfway through what he was just zinging out there. And grabbed his elbow, "Slow down. Pretend I don't have three degrees in every facet of science and that my IQ isn't over 135 and just…dumb it down for me a little."

Leon actually answered, surprising her, because it meant he? He understood every fucking word…damn him.

"Genetic mapping - also called linkage mapping - can offer firm evidence that a disease transmitted from parent to child is linked to one or more genes. Mapping also provides clues about which chromosome contains the gene and precisely where the gene lies on that chromosome."

Quint nodded, fast and happy, "Yes! Hah! I tell you about this guy, Jill? They say he's practically a genius."

So, she'd heard, annoyingly.

Quint went on, "Yes, exactly, using genetic mapping…" He moved to his map and pointed, "I can tell you that these two are related."

The Genesis brought up data on two agents by the fountain, "See? Not first generation. But it's in there. Cousins?"

Amused, Leon nodded, "Second cousins."

"Precisely."

Jill queried, "Why does this matter? In the big picture?"

And Leon answered again, "Genetic maps have been used successfully to find the gene responsible for relatively rare, single-gene inherited disorders such as cystic fibrosis. It isolates the chemical patterns characteristic specifically to the base…it makes a marker."

Jill kept her brow winged up.

Leon took her arm and guided her over to the wall. There was no flirting with him now. Just intelligence, just excitement, and a little bit of awe. The intelligence?

Super fucking hot.

Damn him.

He gestured to the subjects that were related. "They both have a genetic history of asthma. But the markers found don't stop there. They can find heart disease, cancer…psychiatric disorders."

He moved behind her and gestured over her shoulder to a woman at the top right, "DNA markers don't, by themselves, identify the gene responsible for the disease or trait, but they can tell researchers roughly where the gene is on the chromosome. This woman? She's a carrier for muscular dystrophy."

She turned her head to feel his profile next to hers. She went half brain dead but she murmured, "How does that help us?"

He turned his head down, eyes bright and grinning, "The T-Virus works on a submolecular level. It bonds, directly, to the DNA of the host. It is looking for specific markers. We can use this to track susceptibility to the virus."

Quint laughed with delight to have a similar mind at work with him, "YES! We can pinpoint areas within large populations of those most likely to be targeted-"

And Jill finished it now, seeing the pattern, finally, "—and vaccinate them in advance."

Reverently.

She got it now.

She felt Leon drop his hand onto her shoulder and squeeze and he breathed, "Yeah. We can stop it before it lands. We can inoculate entire areas and avoid outbreaks."

"Oh, god. Oh my god." She laughed.

She, also, apparently lost her mind as she turned and spontaneously hugged him.

Which…was a response to the excitement of FINALLY making headway.

But it was ok, in a way. Because he hugged her back. And Quint came over to hug them.

Which…was kinda weird but again, ok, because they were all so happy.

She liked the hugging. The hugging was good.

Her hands slid under the suit jacket he was finally wearing and did NOT stroke his back. Nope. It was just a hug.

The hugging was good. Harmless.

Quint let go to dance and start rambling on again about the process of viral elimination using a large-scale distribution of the vaccine.

And Jill realized she was still holding on to Leon Kennedy.

So…it was now a fifteen-second hug. Which…was entirely too long for public embracing. Her hands kinda slid down and over the top of his ass. He leaned back to see her face, eyes wide and sparkling with good humor, and from somewhere on the upper balcony Jill heard someone shout, "MANWHORE!"

She jumped back like he'd burned her.

She literally stumbled doing it and half fell on the table with all her research on it. Quint grabbed her out of habit, since he was always falling himself, and set her upright – unphased. He just kept going on about the Genesis.

Jill's beet red face flicked up to the balcony. Claire. In a black suit. She used her hands to demonstrate humping a fern beside her and pointed at Leon.

Leon, so amused it almost HURT, mused, "I believe she's implying I fucked that plant."

Hoarsely, Jill breathed, "Why not? You humped everything else."

Oh, he loved this girl. He grinned and winked at Claire who gave him a narrow look and spun back to the conference room. And he added, "Not true. The plant is clearly not wearing a skirt."

He turned his head, tilting it, "Want another hug?"

Asshole.

The hugging was BAD.

The hugging was bad.

She stepped back and gave him deadpan eyes. "No. Thank you. I'll pass." She patted Quint on the arm, "I…am gonna leave you with Mr. Kennedy."

Quint seemed happy as a clam now. "Are you interested in the updated functions I've integrated to include isolation of the exact location of plagas in implanted hosts?"

Leon considered him and laughed. Because he really was.

"You know what?" Leon kicked a chair out and sat down, crossing his ankles, "Show me whatcha got."

Jill narrowed her eyes at him, "….maybe we shouldn't be giving away our secrets here, Quint."

Quint looked confused. "It's interagency cooperation, right? How does getting USSTRATCOM on board not benefit all of us?"

Leon tilted his head at her as if to say: I told you so.

And Jill rolled her eyes, "Fine…just…" She picked up her files from the table, "I'm taking these with me."

Leon tried not to laugh, a little, "Why is that?"

"So you don't…you know…take them in the bathroom with you and just…leave them there."

Oh, his face. It was something. He licked his teeth and cleared his throat, "Maybe I'll see you in the bathroom later and we can read them together."

Her brain said: There's no reading with him in the bathroom. Unless you're reading the fire escape plan posted on the back of the stall as he's hammering you into the door. Then maybe.

Jill swung away, snorting.

Leon watched her make a beeline for the elevator and said, off-handedly, "Hey guy?"

Quint bobbed, happily, gathering his data up. "Yes, sir?"

"Gather up your data, give me thirty minutes, and meet me down by the water. Might as well have some sun, sand, and sangria while you brief me on it, right?"

"Sure. You bet! Absolutely."

The eager puppy thing was pretty funny. The guy was CLEARLY not her boyfriend too. Which meant? She was a fibber of the first water.

Leon nipped into the closing doors a second before she got away.

Jill pursed her lips, not amused at all. "Stalker."

He laughed and shrugged a shoulder. "Just two people on an elevator here. You prefer bathrooms?"

Jill shifted away, pouting a little. Was it too much to ask that he not be…everywhere? Maybe just…not here. Over there?

Where is there? Her mind wondered. How far away is far enough?

Jill mused, aloud, "You…know what you are doing."

Oh, his eyes were all kinds of twinkling joy. "Do I?"

"Don't you?"

"Do you?"

"Oh, I do. I do. Don't tell me you don't."

He smirked, "Don't what?"

"You know what." She shifted, red face.

And he queried, "What do I know?"

"You know..what you know…that's all I know. I'm just sayin."

The elevator pinged and four cheerleaders jumped in with pompoms and laughter and giggling. Leon shifted closer to Jill to make room. Jill went stone-faced.

The cheerleaders were practicing and shrieking with joy and one, maybe eighteen on a good day glanced over at them. She blinked, she giggled, and she squeaked, "Hi!"

Amused, Leon winked back, "Hi."

Lord.

The giggling.

Jill pursed her lips, licking her teeth, and she muttered, "Yeah, you do…what you do…dude."

He blinked. His face just...it split on the cutest smile probably, potentially, ever on a person's face. He leaned a little down to her ear. "You seem nervous."

She hated him.

Officially.

Jill laughed, face flushed, "I'm not. I assure you. I do not do…what you do...ever. So…yeah. Don't-uh-" She swooped her hand in a circle in front of her, "Do your do over here in this..space here. That's a do free zone."

Deadpan now, he eyed her, "A do do free zone huh?"

Damn him.

She smirked. He smirked.

The cheerleader said, "You're really cute."

And Jill answered, without missing a beat, "Why thank you. You're cute too."

The girls giggled and twittered and laughed with delight and Leon leaned back against the wall. His arm draped behind her on the railing. He said, tongue in cheek, "I think you're cute too, FYI."

She gave him a cool expression from a pink face, "Keep your…mojo over there, sir. It's not welcome here."

"In the do do free zone?"

Oy.

The elevator pinged open, the cheerleaders scattered and one poked her head in as the doors closed, "Super cute…for an old guy."

The doors pinged shut.

Jill was frozen – eyes wide.

She coughed into the ensuing silence.

And Leon?

He just laughed. "Well, shit, sucks for you. She thinks you're an old guy. Maybe you should have worn a skirt."

UGH. Unflappable. Seriously.

Jill gave him a narrow look. "You are an odious man."

"I've heard that somewhere before actually."

"Hmm. She seems like a wise soul."

"Ah. She is..for an old guy."

Jill turned her face to him completely now. "You think you're charming?"

He considered it, speculative, eyes squinted as he assessed the situation. Her lips quirked, brows lifted, and he answered, "Yep. I say yes. Tentatively? I'm going with an affirmative on the charming."

The jacket was just open, the adorable little vest pulled happily taunt over his retardedly perfect belly, and he was just leaning there like…a swooping, annoying, staring weirdo.

Jill said, out loud again, almost rambling, "I might hate you."

Oh. That wild amusement on him again, "Hmm. Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're…dumb. And…tall."

He shifted. Their hips brushed.

HOW LONG WAS THIS ELEVATOR RIDE!? She was dying here.

The longest goddamn ride in history.

And her brain said: Nope. That happened in the bathroom last night.

Shit.

Plop.

She looked down to see if she, literally, had just shit a brick. Nope. Just her feet, and his, in those loafers. So, she added, "Go stand over there."

He laughed. He just laughed. "Why? I like it here."

"This-it's-this is my ZONE." She shoved him a little and had him laughing with delight, "This is where I stand. The Jill Zone."

"The do do free zone?"

Ugh.

UGH. God.

"Yes! No hairdos. Or dudes with tattoos. Or dudes who do…what..you…do…" He sniffed her behind her ear.

She froze, her brains went FBBTSIl&*! And she tried to remember what she was saying.

Why was he always staring and sniffing!? Was he a dog?

She shouted it and had him jumping, "Stop with the SMELLING!"

He blinked, "I was just checking for do do. Can't have any of that in your zone."

Hate. She hated him. She pointed at his nose, "You are an absolute mess, sir. And very…stupid. With the sniffing and swooping and the singing."

He turned his face. She turned hers. Her fingers shifted and curled into his vest. They rubbed mouths and she shouted, so loud it echoed, "AND THE SEX!"

His eyes were so wide. He was soooo laughing up his sleeve at her. She knew it.

He said, quietly, "Stupid with the sex?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes. With the sexing and the…" She slid a little more against him, fisting his tie, "…face."

His brows arched, he didn't even move now. He just let her root around against him with her nose and her nervous energy. "The face?" Quiet now, he murmured it, "You don't like the face, huh?"

"No…the face-the face is-it's—good face. It's good face."

"Well, thanks. I like your face too."

"Yeah. Just…" She nuzzled him down to her and whispered, "…don't tell."

Lord. She was something. His eyes twinkled, "Who am I telling?"

"…anyone. I think or-uh-no one? Who? Wait-what? What are you saying?"

She was adorable. He was a little nuts for her. "Hmm. I have no clue. Jill?"

"Mmm?"

"You want me to kiss you?"

"Yeah. A little. Maybe-yeah—so a little bit."

"Sure. In your zone?"

"No-just—let me do this—thing here…like..just…over here." Gibberish or something. It didn't matter. She spilled into him. He shifted to let her. He didn't touch her at all.

She just put her tongue in his mouth and tried to taste the coffee on him.

Yep, she thought, handfuls of his hair and four seconds of burning alive from the mouth down later, yep. Mocha.

Panting a little, she murmured, "Maybe you can put your hands on me…a little. Maybe."

"Hmm. Do what I do huh?"

"Yeah. Yep." She licked him and had him turning into her. "Yeah. Do what you do. Mmhmm. Sure."

He opened her suit jacket to slide his hands onto her and around her back to press her into him. Breathy, he asked, "What do I do?"

And she whispered, squeaking a little, "Uh-I don't—um—me?"

He laughed against her mouth, letting her take the lead here. Which…was not at all his style.

She slid her hands into the back of his pants and gripped his ass. "Yeah. Do me. Sounds right I think? Good? Yes?"

"Yes. Good. Yep."

Shifting cloth, the click of teeth, and somebody laughed. She pushed him into the corner and made mincemeat out of his mouth with her hands in his pants like a horny parasite or something. She had him laughing with it and catching her face to plunge into her mouth like she wanted it.

She found his holster and her brain was confused. What was this confunded contraption? Why was it blocking her groping hands?

She whispered, "Where's the..the-itchy stuff-the clicky latchey stuff?"

God. His hands slid over hers and guided it under the holster so she could rub his shoulders. "The velcro?"

"Yeah. The scratchy...shifty stuff...are you wearing a harness?"

He laughed. He just laughed, "It's a holster, honey, you know that. You're wearing one."

She paused. She blinked. Her owl eyes were glazed. She shivered and breathed as he nipped down her neck and gasped, "Is it an arctic wolf?!"

His head came up, her mouth found his and had her forgetting what the hell she'd been asking anyway. She got one hand in his pants and skimmed him.

To his surprise? He jumped like a snake had taken a bite.

She laughed, shaking in his arms, and charmed the shit out of him. "Oh, ha-ha-sorry?"

"Sorry. No. Nope. Keep going." Wet. Holy god. She was all sloppy kissing and sleepy eyes.

And she gasped, "Um-do the...swooping. A little."

"A little swooping?"

"A little."

He swooped. She clung, one hand trying to get under his belt and find the length of him. She gasped, feet dangling as he held her and kissed her brainless, "Remove this-this thing. The strap thing."

"My belt?"

"Yeah. Just...no belt. Let me...you know-swoop."

SHIT. He vibrated. She was speaking half in tongues, half in dazed madness - but he got the feeling she was asking to go down on him. In the elevator. Right now.

Proving he wasn't a complete fucking disgrace? He whispered, "Come to my room, Jill. Come upstairs with me. I'll do what I do all over you."

She nodded. She found him and wrapped her fist around him. He grunted, went half blind and retarded and-

The elevator doors pinged.

A handful of seconds to realize they were about to no longer be alone.

A handful of his cock in the fist of Jill Valentine.

His brain said: G^%BDFl&! Because it kinda wanted someone to come in and see that. Why not?

HE wanted to see it, feel it, smell and watch it. So why not?

But nope. NOPE. No. Because he wasn't a saint. He was mostly a sinner so bad that Sister Mary Francis at the fantastically awful Catholic school, Our Lady of Sorrows, had made clear when she'd stood him up in front of the class to write: I will not use my ruler to look up girls skirts on the chalkboard over and over in the sixth grade. But he wasn't a bastard.

He was still looking up girls skirts, so he wasn't a good guy either. But he wasn't a complete asshat.

He didn't want someone to catch her groping him. Which surprised him. Why? Since when did he care?

And Leon realized he liked her. He did. And he didn't want her getting caught with her hands all over him. God KNEW what would happen to her reputation. The double standard said he'd be just fine. But her? She'd be ostracized.

Finding her adorable. Playing her to see how far he'd get. All in good fun. But not at the risk of her career. He liked her, her fantastic ass aside, he didn't want to tank her rep in their profession.

He just wasn't that kind of guy.

He caught her hands, and whispered, "Wait, sweetheart, just a minute here. Ok? Trust me."

He pulled her clear of him, turned her, and put her beside him as they opened and at least seven of her coworkers got on.

Jill shivered, blinking.

Leon charmed. He laughed. He jested with the guys on the elevator. Jill stood frozen, staring, but it was ok. She was known in the organization as a cool fish anyway. So no one would care about that.

The elevator pinged, the men got off.

The doors closed and she whispered, a little hoarsely, "…thank you."

Now he just felt bad. He did. All joking aside. He didn't want her looking at him with regret like that. He wanted her looking at him, maybe all day and night for like a week until they were used up and dead from it, but not like he was bad news.

He nodded, staring at the doors and not at her, "Sure. I'll back off."

Surprised, she turned her head to him, "What?"

"I'll back off. Fun is one thing, and I like playing with fire as much as the next guy," He glanced at her face and her mouth, making her shiver with it, "But not at the risk of you getting burned here, Jill. I can withstand it. Hell, I'd probably get high fives all over the place for being the guy who tagged Jill Valentine in an elevator."

She blinked and nodded, watching something on his face she hadn't seen before. What was it? Intelligence, sure, and sex – that was there in his eyes too – but what was the other part?

What had Claire said? A good dude…just a man whore.

He stroked a thumb over her mouth and had her leaning into him for more.

To her surprise?

He set her away from him with a sigh of regret, "I'm an asshole, Jill." The doors pinged and he left her in the elevator to step off, "But I'm not a fucking asshole. Dancing around each other can be fun as hell, but not if you come out looking like a whore because of it. I'll back off."

"You'll-um-what? You'll back off?"

"Yep. I'll be professional."

"I-just-uh-wait—you'll—ok?"

"What you want right?"

The doors swished toward closing and she, flabbergasted and light-headed, stammered, "Y-yes? Yes? Do I?"

"Don't you?" He laughed lightly, he winked, and the doors swished closed on him.

He turned, sighing a little, and Claire was eyeing him with a tapping high heel near the alcove by his room.

Leon tilted his head, curious, "Sup?"

"Sup? Really? Sup? That's what you have to say for yourself?"

Amused, Leon keyed into his room and Claire followed, leaning in the doorway. "Out with it, Claire. I don't speak girl. So, spill the beans and beat it, would ya? I gotta get to the send-off thing."

"Jill is a good girl."

He paused, surprised, and turned to her. "I know that."

"Do you?"

These women and their do you's. The bane of his existence here. "I do."

"You do?"

"Don't I?"

She laughed, rolling her eyes, "Leave her alone, Leon. I mean it. She's sweet. She's professional as all hell. She's good at separating herself from it all. She doesn't hardly ever date. And she's not some little simpering cocktail waitress for you to bang and dump on a corner with cab money."

Annoyed now, he threw his jacket over the chair at the table in his suite, "I know that too. Back off here, Claire. I mean it. You're not my mother. And you're not hers either. She doesn't need you to protect her from me."

Claire eyed him, coolly, "Yes, she does. You're like some kind of running joke around here."

Well, shit, that was insulting. More than a little, "Am I? How so?"

"You look…like that. You clearly know it. You flirt with anything that breathes. You toss it around without any concern on Earth for who gets hurt. Mr. Super Spy Guy – James Fucking Bond of bioterror. Mr. Shaken Not Stirred and a different girl a night. Jill's not the type of girl to be your Octopussy, Double O Seven, I promise you."

Now he was just pissed. He jerked off his shoulder holster and threw it on the table with a clatter of sound, "Close the door, Claire. Now."

She did, snapping it shut. She crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him angrily.

"One – I'm good at my fucking job. I work harder than anybody in this fucking place to do it. I haven't had time to take a dump let alone a vacation in so long that I don't even remember what it feels like to not be nose to the grindstone." He jerked off his vest and added it to his jacket. The thing about Claire? She didn't care. He could be stark naked and she wouldn't care. "Two? I like her."

Claire narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, yeah. I like her. She's charming as hell. She's refreshing. After the gold digging, two-faced, double-crossing bitches I've come up against in this business? She's a fucking godsend. I'm a man, so I'm not dead, I've fucked plenty of bar skanks, you got me there because it's not like I have time to find a nice girl and get married and crank out a brood of brats."

She watched him, considering the truth of that.

"Instead? I get my five minutes on top of a warm body so that, just for a minute, I'm not so goddamn alone in it all. Is it P.C.? Does it make me a bad guy to admit it? Fine. I admit it. But we both know, in our business, you get your happiness in three-second intervals between one bloodbath and the next. So, do us both a favor, and don't stand over there judging me for finding a few minutes of it here. I'm not using anybody. I'm not trying to hurt her. I'm just…enjoying it. And her. And this. So, back the fuck off and leave it alone."

Claire stood quietly as he disappeared into his bedroom. She waited, thinking. She had to admit, here, in this moment, she was wrong. She was.

Again, she KNEW Kennedy was a good dude. She knew it. And he wasn't wrong on the lack of time and inclination to cultivate a real relationship in their business. But her protective instincts were still telling her to get in front of Jill and save her the crushing demise that awaited her at the end of this crazy flirtation of theirs.

He came out the bedroom in a pair of dark red swim trunks. Her hands went up to show herself unarmed when he shot her full of the evil death stare, "Ok. OK. I apologize. I'm sorry."

He threw his towel over the couch and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring her down.

"Ok, Leon. I get it. I apologize alright? Jill's my friend. So are you. I see this going REALLY badly for her. I overreacted."

He shifted, sighing. He wasn't the type to stay mad for long. And he shook his head with a heavy sound, "It's fine. I kinda ended it in the elevator there for the same reason."

Curious, Claire arched her brows, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm not gonna soil her rep by groping her like a horny kid at a pool party, Claire. The flirting, it's the best I've felt in a long time, but it has limits here. And I won't torch her because I like to feel the fire of it. So, don't worry."

Yep. A good dude at the core of it.

Claire shifted, eyeing him. "Thank you. And for what it's worth?"

He lifted his brow at her.

"I'm sorry for before. I am. Bros?"

He laughed, lightly and had her grinning, "Naturally. But bros before hos, Claire. Remember that."

Claire chuckled and watched him move to his balcony. He leaned on it, he turned to scan the horizon, and his profile wasn't good natured at all. It wasn't happy or flirty or adorable.

It was just kinda sad.

And she wondered why she'd never bothered to pay attention that before. He was lonely. In their business, lonely was the only way to be. But he was feeling it.

What did he say? I like her, Claire. I like her.

Maybe she was pushing against the wrong tide here. Maybe she should be pushing them together instead. What if…he was GOOD for her?

She blinked, she considered it. What if he was good to Jill?

Why had she never considered that before?

What if he was just…all talk?

What if, under the flippant, flirting, winking and wandering eye, there was a guy looking for….a valentine?

She coughed. She laughed. And she kept on staring at his profile.

Because she was pretty sure…she was also kinda right.


	4. A (Drunken) Nightmare

PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS  
....  
Episode 4: A (Drunken) Nightmare Revisited  
....

The Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia (Pre-Panic), 2004  
.....

The send-off party was all fireworks and excitement. It was a herd of nerds on a beach by the ocean eating scallops and oysters and lobsters on the tax payer's dime. To assuage himself of the yuppie guilt that came with it, Leon avoided all the expensive shit and helped himself to a beer and a hotdog from a local vendor.

The evening rolled in and all the shirtless, pale, scary nerds began to cover up. It was the science lab dorks with their little soda and chip bellies and the skinny, shapeless geek girls in their tasteful one pieces with their overly untanned limbs all put on wraps and shirts atop their sunblock and SPF 70.

Leon?

Shirtless at 9 pm sitting on the side of the ocean.

Sunblock? He hadn't worn any in 20 years. He figured, objectively, if the T-Virus didn't get him, cancer probably would.

Consequently, he was tanned a lovely golden brown after three days of hanging around on white sand in pristine sunlight. His hair was blonde on a good day and turned a pretty pale beach bum beneath the relentless warm rays. His toes traced in the sand, watching it curl between each digit in a feathery fluff.

The Bud Light tucked into the fluff beside him was sweating. It was barely sipped on. Why?

He was a scotch man. But scotch was yuppie booze. So he was sticking with All American for his theme this evening. A beer, a hot dog, a pair of red white and blue swim trunks. He was so patriotic he was practically ready to fart the national anthem.

There was a flicker of lighting out over the water nearly lost beneath the myriad of colors thrown up into the sky by the fireworks display. He watched it, tracked it, and knew it would rain before dawn. The air tugged at his hair, sending it around his face like fingers had scattered it. It was cool enough that he shivered, tucking his arms around his knees where they were tented lazily before him. He rested his chin on his knees, watching the lighting and the fireworks.

A pretty night.

He could, easily, go up the beach and get one of the eighteen girls up in there in the bachelorette party to go home with him. He could, objectively, head back to the send-off and get one of the science geeks to slob on his knob for a half an hour to drain the snake and take away a little of the loneliness he was wallowing in. But, like all things, it would just leave him emptier than when he'd started.

As he often did, on a long night, he questioned the fight. Why was he still in it?

He knew, objectively, why he'd gotten in. For Sherry. After Raccoon. It was the right thing then.

And now?

What about now?

Did even believe in what he was fighting for?

Sometimes, he was pretty sure he was fighting simply because he didn't know how to stop. He'd believed, the day he'd picked up the badge in Raccoon, that he was meant to serve a greater purpose. In his guts and his bones and his balls, he believed he was meant to do good.

It was altruistic and cliché as all hell, but he meant it.

And now?

He'd stop thinking about the "why" a long time ago. He was now invested so far in the thick of it that he'd gone blind to the reason for it at all. The T-Virus was evil, sure, and it needed to be eradicated. The world needed to be protected.

That was the hero in him talking. And the hero understood the price would probably be his life.

The man in him knew the price wouldn't even matter. If he died tomorrow, fighting the fight, what good would it do? No one would remember him. No one would care. And the T-Virus would keep killing everywhere it touched.

He laughed, lightly, and said, "You need to stick with scotch."

Apparently, beer made him introspective. The brew was not his friend on a warm night when he was feeling like he might want, just for a minute, something to forget about the uselessness of it all.

He shivered again and blinked as a towel fell over his head.

Curious, he pulled it around his shoulders and looked up.

She sat down in the sand next to him, wearing some little-flowered dress in white red and blue. Hers had big lotus flowers all over it. Color-wise, it appeared they were playing tag. A little shawl in tasteful white was draped over her shoulders.

Her dark hair was loose and waving in pretty sleek locks in the breeze.

She had enough black eyeliner ringed around her eyes to make the blue look smokey.

They sat in quiet for a long moment before he finally said, "Thank you."

"Sure."

They didn't look at each other now. They watched the fireworks and the lightning.

Jill finally spoke, no stuttering at all, and surprised the hell out of him, "After Raccoon City, I spent three days in a hotel in Idaho…" She smiled slightly, amused, "Why? Who knows. There's nothing in Idaho but potatoes. And even those I couldn't find or didn't care to. I cried. I drank. I cursed. I watched bad t.v…when I finally climbed outta that hole and got on with things, it was time to jump right back in and start burying Umbrella."

She curled easily in the sand and the dress fluttered prettily. Behind them, people were oohing and aahing and laughing. She kept watching the lights above them. "I remember when I got in front of a mirror for the first time, the look of horror on my own face – because between the surviving, the nightmares, and the boozing, lack of sleeping, and sobbing – I looked like hammered shit and felt worse."

She turned her face to look at him. He turned his back, laying his cheek on his knees and managing, somehow, to look utterly fucking adorable.

And she finished, "I didn't look half as bad as you do now. Tell me what you saw. Tell me what you did. Tell me…because whatever it was? It's better out than in."

He considered her, watching her eyes reflect the growing grumbling sky, watching them shine in the flicker of red, orange, green and pink. And he queried, "Did you? Let it out?"

"I did. To Chris. He listened. He got it." She smiled, softly, "It helps to tell someone who gets it."

They held eyes, breathing now, so simply entranced with each other.

And he just started talking.

It was effortless once he got going. He talked about Spain. He talked about Saddler. He talked about Ashley Graham and Ada Wong and Wesker. He talked about the sample he'd lost and the parasite that had lived in his body. He talked about the night sweats, the fever dreams, the drinking and the forgetting. He talked and talked and he didn't flirt. He didn't wink and drive her insane.

He just…charmed her by being real.

She listened, she took his beer and drank it. She watched his face, captivated by it, and the words that seemed to desperately escape his mouth. She'd come out of her room to the beach to escape the idea of him…and here he was.

But it was like he was here for the first time as well.

Because there was no witty banter and playing around. Just a guy, on a beach, feeling lonely.

And a girl, on a beach, feeling the same.

He said, softly, "I don't think this is what I was supposed to do with my life."

Curious, she tried to see the truth of that on him. Amazing. He meant it. For a guy who was the fucking talk of the town in terms of what he could do. Meant to do it? Maybe not. But he was made to do it.

She replied, softly, "I'm glad you are. I really am. Every single person that comes to the fight and stays, makes a difference. Every single time you choose to go back in and not give up, it matters, Mr. Kennedy, no matter how small you think it is. And you? You're good at what you do. I don't know a single person on Earth who'd have survived what was in the Kennedy Report. But you did. And you didn't just survive it, you made it legend."

She touched his face, lightly, where it rested on his knees, almost soothing him now, "Don't give up. Not yet. We're close to something, I can feel it in my blood. You've earned the right to see it through, Kennedy. Don't deprive yourself of that."

He smiled, softly, and she liked that too. He answered her, quietly, "Jill?"

"Hmm?"

"It's Leon. Just Leon."

It was. She knew that. She also knew if she called him that, if she said it, she'd make it personal. It wasn't, not right this second, now? Now was about the war. About the battle. About the cause. It was keeping a good soldier in the fight with her. It was how she separated herself from her men without crossing that line. It was what she was good at.

She wasn't good at separating herself from "Leon." She was able to seperate herself from Kennedy. Kennedy was a name on a piece of paper. A file folder. A man with more notations for bravery and adaptability than any agent in a decade. A faceless stranger up to his eyebrows in the same fight as her. If he started to have a real name, he'd start to matter.

It was easier for him to stay Kennedy.

And so she answered, almost a whisper, "Promise me you won't give up."

He eyed her, watching the storm flicker in her eyes, and replied, "Not today." He laughed lightly, "I'm still on duty. The story of my life."

Jill smiled, softly, and dropped her hand from his face, "Ah, yes. The story of my life too. That's all we can ever do anyway. One day a time."

The fireworks ended. The party died down. The chill off the ocean spilled almost too cool.

The silence filled up between them when he finally stopped, watching her face. But it was a good silence, the kind that comes after a purge. She finally rose, picking up her sandals from the fluffy white beside him, "It'll be raining soon. And it's a long ride back to the mainland tomorrow for me. It…" She laughed a little, lightly, "It was nice meeting you….Mr. Kennedy."

She turned to walk back to the hotel.

He sat in the sand to watch her go and kept on sitting there even as the first drops of rain plopped soft and wet onto his face.

It was curious to him that he'd wanted her to stay. Just a little longer. So he didn't feel so fucking alone.

There was a tap on his door about two a.m.

He opened it to find her standing there. Still in that dress. Hair wet. Skin damp.

He had a highball of scotch in one hand and sleeping pants thrown on in green plaid. They were slung low on his hips and left…really…nothing to the imagination since he was shirtless and divine with it, from the cut of his hipbones to the curve of his collarbone.

She whispered, softly, "I…I just..I wanted to-you know-just say goodbye."

He leaned in the doorframe, watching her, "Again?"

She was barefoot, she was nervous, he could smell it on her like an animal. "I just…who are you?"

Their eyes met. He smiled, gently. And she asked again, "Who are you? One way, another. A mystery. A double mystery. A mess?"

He shrugged, lightly, "I'm me. That's all I got. Take it or leave it."

She eyed him quietly. He eyed her back.

And she whispered, "….take it."

He shifted aside, pulse skipping, and she walked past him into the room.

He closed the door quietly as she set her shoes down on the carpet by the dresser. And he mused, in the shifting shadows from the lightning beyond the windows, "Not playing games here, Jill. Flirting, sure, but I'm not playing you. Whatever this is, is whatever you want it to be."

She turned back, watching him.

And she finally responded, "What do you want?"

He set down the highball, gently. "Now. That's all we have anyway. Now."

She agreed. Wholeheartedly.

And he added, "What do you want, Jill?"

She moved forward. She was shaking. He saw it in her hands as she took his scotch – and threw it back in a single swig.

Impressed, waiting for her to choke or cough, and floored when she simply eyed him coolly, she finally answered him, "You."

A good answer.

"Now?" He tilted his head. The room lit for a moment with lightning.

Her hands lifted and trembled, they caught the straps of her dress and tugged. It fell in a whisper of cloth to the floor. Simple – elegant – blue lace panties and a beige bra beneath it. No thigh highs. No garter. Nothing in place to say: seduction.

Just her.

The least effort any woman, ever, had put into seducing him.

And the first time he'd, ever, been nervous facing one.

It was almost amusing to him.

He watched her and she, almost, covered up her body after the dress fell. Like she was, what? Embarrassed?

No.

Like she was nervous too.

Well, that part? That part was easy for him. He made it easy for her too.

And swooped.

He scooped her up and carried her to the bed with its red silk sheets. Like blood and fire. Like sunset on a horizon before it goes dark.

He laid her down on it. His mouth touched the hollow at her throat, tender, soft.

And he trembled a little.

Touched, Jill slid her hand over his chest and felt the swift tattoo of his heart. He was nervous. For a "man-whore", he wasn't falling into the right places Jill had set up in her brain for him. He wasn't playing the game right.

He was supposed to be superfluous and callous and charmingly conceited. He was, in one hand, the most charming man she'd ever met. And, by turns, the most insecure.

Her shaking hands shifted under her back to the clasp of her strapless bra. It gave and she slid it off her to let it fall on the floor. The more she looked at him, the more her nerves calmed. Why? Because he wasn't trying to get in her pants here. He wasn't pushing. He was just…touching her like she was touching him.

Experimental, sincere, discovering.

He set his mouth to her breasts, tender, tasting and even there, even that, was smooth and questing. She gasped, she shook, she watched his face the whole time. And she whispered, "Oh, god."

His hands shifted to scoop her hair back from her face and leave it naked to his eyes as he leaned over her.

"…what?"

And Jill answered, quietly, "This is so complicated."

He skimmed his mouth over hers, tasting the tremor of her need that echoed his, "Is it?"

She laughed, lightly, as her hands smoothed up his back so delicately it left goosebumps as she went. And she felt him shiver atop her.

Yeah, she thought, complicated.

"Isn't it?"

He studied her face. His thumb skimmed her mouth and brought her sighing, and he answered, "It is. Wanna run?"

Oh, he was something else. She laughed again, quietly, "Maybe. You're in my zone."

His quiet chuckle made her just a little less nervous. "I am. Want me to do what I do there?"

Jill gripped his hair, almost forcefully tugged it back from his face. He grunted, eyes flaring, and she liked that too. She whispered, "I can't be chasing you around like a simpering little thing. I'm not this girl."

He kissed her, eyes open, watching her face and grunted, "Nope. You're not like any girl I've ever met. You don't chase guys?"

"You kidding? Ever. No. Hah. I-am-I am not a girl who…"His mouth slid over the tip of one breast and suckled, making her belly knot and her hands jerk in his hair, "…cares about-the chasing…and-and…the…"

His mouth trailed over her belly and down one hip.

And she squeaked, "…and the catching…with-and-likes—the fucking."

His head lifted, tilted, curious. "You don't like the fucking?"

Oh, haha, ok. So that wasn't where she was going with this. She'd, gotten confused or something. She pursed her lips, eyes twinkling in the dark. "No. Yes. What? You're just…stop doing that."

He licked above the line of her panties and she wiggled against him, delighting him. "I…am not a girl that…wants-needs-…to…" He nipped her over her panties. She felt her brain fall out her left ear and plop on the floor and she grunted, "…shit."

His forehead dropped against her belly and rubbed, ruining her ability to process human thought at all and he just…laughed. He just laughed. "You don't need to shit? That definitely makes you like no other girl I've ever met."

Jill shook her head, face flushed, eyes hooded but twinkling. Holy moly, he mused, she was beautiful. And she whispered, "You're not as cute as you think you are, Mr. Kennedy."

He flashed white teeth in a little sheepish grin, "I'm a little cute...maybe."

"...maybe." Breathless. She was hoarse looking at him. "What are you doing to me?"

A good question. And he whispered, "Swooping."

Yep. That. And staring. They both were.

His hands slid into her panties to tug them down her legs. She bicycled them off so fast he couldn't stop the laugh again.

Amused, a little irritated by it, Jill tugged him down atop her, feet tracing the soft sleeping pants he wore. She fisted his hair again, eyeballing him. "Don't..you know…try to make me love you, you…idiot."

Bright with laughter, his eyes were retardedly gorgeous inches from hers. He rubbed his nose against hers and had her sighing, "I can't help it, Jill. I can't. Girls? They just follow me around like the pied piper. I have to spend all my time hiding from them when I go out on missions. They find me. I huddled in a shed for three days once when an entire high school filled with girls tracked me in Minnesota. It was terrifying."

His good humor. He was so fucking annoying.

Ok, that was a lie. He was so fucking charming. It was painful. Jill chortled and reached a hand down to slap his ass, making him – legitimately- stick his tongue between his teeth and wink at her.

"You're not funny."

He dropped his mouth, kissing her sweet and pecking, making her squirm in his arms, "Oh, I'm funny. Charming? Maybe not so much. But funny I got, kid. Hands down."

Jill caught the legs of his sleeping pants with her toes and tugged them down his hips. Charming or not, she mused as he shifted and settled himself hard and ready against her eager body, he wasn't laughing now. She rubbed against him and he licked her mouth, lazily.

"Mr. Kennedy?"

"Hmm?" He nipped at her neck and had her head turning for more. One hand shaped and molded her breast, carelessly.

"Do what you do."

He lifted his head, watching her face, "What do I do?"

She rubbed him along the warm heat of her and had them both shivering with it. And she answered, "Shut up…and fuck me."

He laughed, lightly, eyes flaring with it and whispered, "That wasn't clever at all, Jill. That? Just dirty."

"I'm entirely too…clean. Make me-you know-dirtier."

Yep. His brain liked it. He was rock hard and throbbing for it now. He shifted her hips and took her, swift, thick and claiming. She was so used to the banter she wasn't prepared – oh but she was ready. She was indeed. Her little center just swallowed him down and loved it.

He grunted. She gasped. And he pinned her, twisting his fingers in her hair, "Jill?"

She made some sound that might have been, "Fibbitybibbit."

Hah! She was fucking adorable. "It's Leon. My name? Leon."

Her eyes blurred. They hooded. Her hands gripped his ass and rolled him inside her. She squeaked, high and beautifully, "…shut up and fuck me, Mr. Kennedy. Hurry."

He couldn't stop the laugh. He gave up and hammered her into the bed so hard he was afraid it would break the damn thing. Not that he cared.

He couldn't seem to give a shit.

Admittedly, he'd never Hustler fucked a girl who refused to call him by his given name, so there was a first time for everything. Like that first time – this girl didn't quit.

She rolled him over, she rode him so hard he was fairly sure he'd be bruised in the morning, and she made noises like a feral animal.

No.

He listened as he sat up and jerked her down on his lap so hard it slapped.

Nope.

Not just her.

He made sounds like a rutting pig or something. It was almost comic. But nope. It wasn't that either. Because it was too goddamn hot to be funny.

Amused, delighted, he threw her to her back on the bed and gave it to her like he'd kill her with it.

She spilled off the bed during the thrusting and he cushioned their fall to the floor but he didn't stop. She laughed, high and loud and happy, and hit the wall and the dresser, half wedged there.

Sweating, spitting his hair out of his eyes, he laughed and said, "Just…let me…here…"

"No! Don't stop! Idiot! Keep going!"

Yep. Animal.

His arms jerked her up from the corner and he kinda walked on his knees with her just…rodeo riding him like a wild thing…to throw her on the rug by the bed so she wasn't smacking her head into the wall at least.

Rugburn, somebody cursing in three languages, and they were back where they started with her wedged against the wall and the kitchen cabinet. She grunted. She pushed. She rolled over onto all fours and said, "There…jesus…here. Like this."

His hand grappled to find the bottle of scotch on the floor beside them. He jerked open the top and shot a mouthful of it. And? She whipped her head around and said, "Here. Me."

He poured it in her mouth and shared it on the worlds wettest kiss. Smooth liquor, the burn of it, and the burn of her in his blood. Again? No coughing, no flinching girl here - she downed the expensive booze like a champ.

She gasped, "Hurry."

And killed him. He poured down her spine, he licked it off her like a dog or something. She turned her face for the taste of it, and him, and moaned, "Now. Please?" And wiggled her ass at him.

His brain said, "Gibberflerbitron." The bottle tumbled to the rug, she grabbed it to take a big swig, and he grabbed her hair like a brace to hold her for it as he took her from behind bathed in sweat and scotch.

Somebody cursed in gibberish. Her?

Nope. Not his brain. His mouth.

He was her now. Shouting and muttering and speaking in gibberish.

When they were both so close it hurt, he looped an arm around her belly and hips and lifted her. She squealed and jerked and fought to stay down and he gasped, laughing, "Wait…fucking Christ…just wait…"

And he threw her back on the bed again. She opened her arms and legs and down he came. Somehow? Still wearing his pants.

Laughing, he kicked them clear and moved atop her.

She grabbed for his junk to put him in her and he breathed, with a sharp laugh, "Jill, up here. Look at me."

She did, quaking and one eye twitching, which made him laugh again with pleasure, "Jill?"

"Mm? Yes? I am? Am I? Who?" Oh, LORD, he liked this girl. She was charmingly inept at finding words. It was fucking refreshing as hell, "I am, Jill? I think?"

"You, are. I'm pretty sure." She eyed him, and his perfect hair was a mess. Sticking up in places and limp in others. One side? Completely poked up like Bart Simpson. Her? She looked like somebody had just dragged her dead body out of the ocean. She was all wet and used. And beautiful. "Who am I?"

Jill shuddered, she gripped his ass and murmured, "God?"

Oh, haha. She was…she was exquisite. "Leon."

She blinked. She considered it. And she breathed, "Sure. Whatever you say."

She humped. She took him in. He grunted and forgot what they were talking about anyway. It was a good, slick, slow finish for a surprisingly fast ride.

She did a lot of stroking his sides and his back and cupping his face to kiss him. He'd thought she was untapped when he'd looked at her that first time. And she was. It wasn't virginal. Not like that. What was it?

Passion. She was untapped there in the passion. She was looking for what he was looking for too. More than just a quick fuck. The stroking, the touching, the laughing – it was more than that. It was intimate and very addictive.

Untapped. Unsoiled. Dirty, sure, but raw with it. He just liked her.

And that was all he knew.

He felt her go, tightening and squeezing and coming around him wet and needy. She took his mouth while she went, easing in and out of her slow and torturous to feel each spasm. And she grunted, "Go. Ok? You ready? Go."

Hah. Bossy.

And he liked that too.

He dropped his mouth to kiss her. "Jill?"

She mewled, taking the plunging heat of him into her and trying to focus,"…sure?"

He laughed, spitting his hair out of his eyes again. Christ in a big red clown car, he thought, he was going to get the shit cut off. Enough was enough with it always in his damn face. "Are you on anything, honey?"

She considered it, shaking, and tightening when he found the spot in her that set her bells off again. She grabbed him so hard he stopped thrusting. "I'm…what? I'm just…I-I think I'm on…you? I'm on you. Yep."

She was. He felt his balls tightened with the possessiveness of it and shivered over her. "No..not…shit. Jill, stop moving."

She did, going still. Her eyes tried to focus on him. "Why?"

He kissed her lightly and had her sighing. "The first time…I just went in you, honey. I went. Stupid and spontaneous and exciting. I don't…want to again…ok…hah…I DO want to again…like all the time…but not if…unless you want me to…but are you, you know…on something? The pill? Or?"

Jill blinked, trying to make sense of what he was saying. He sounded like her. Why was he blathering on when he was balls deeps in her!?

She gasped, "Safe. Good. Yes. Pill. Ok? We're good. You're good. It's good here. Be good, do good, do it. Please. Now with the doing and the coming and the good. Now. Thanks. Thank you. I'm…Jill. I'm Jill."

He laughed. Tugging her into him to…

Jill went still.

Because he was kinda…holding her.

That was affection, pure and simple. No fucking. Just holding.

Alarmed, she pushed him back and shouted, "None of THAT, good sir! No! NO HUGGING! Finish with the fucking..and the swooping…"

Amused, he shifted and drilled her while he watched her face.

She squealed, she jerked, she grappled at his back and gripped. "Like that?" Hoarse, he queried.

"Yes! Oh, hah, hell…like that. Now. Again."

He slapped into her and had her squirming and humping. "Good! Mr. Kennedy, harder!"

And so, he just gave up trying to get her to like him and fucked her stupid instead. Mr. Kennedy, the dumbest thing anyone had ever shouted at him during sex, and he'd once had a girl ask him to piss in her mouth and hold it closed until she swallowed (he didn't do it, naturally, he wasn't THAT drunk).

She came screaming something that might have been gibberish again, he held her hands down above her head and nailed her like he'd paid her for it, and came in her while she bounced and squealed.

If she knew him at all, she'd know that – A: He didn't bareback girls, ever. EVER. B: He didn't come in them. EVER. Not even in a fucking condom. He pulled out, he came, he went home. C: he couldn't remember EVER laughing with one during sex, before it, after it. D: Every fucking one of them had called him Leon during it. Except one in Norway when he'd been so drunk they'd forgotten the other's name anyway.

This one?

The one he liked? She didn't bother to call him Leon. She shouted fuck me harder, Mr. Kennedy, and used him like a whore.

He liked it. He did. No strings was his thing. But?

But?

HE LIKED THIS GIRL.

He didn't want no strings, entirely, here. And it made him laugh as he rolled to his side and brought her back against him to nestle her butt against his groin and hold her.

He woke up to the rain and the thunder beyond the balcony.

And Jill Valentine cursing in the dark and stumbling into things. Amused, he listened to her try to hunt up her shoes, muttering.

"…stupid, stupid…brain tumor…idiot-sniffing and drinking…why!? Drinking and fucking…" He heard her look under the bed, "…no panties…and the-kissing-"

She paused, sighing, and he saw her shadow swoon a little. "Oh, god, the kissing. Idiot. Dumb girl. Man whore…" She was muttering as she was desperately seeking her panties, "…fuck it. FUCK it. Panties of a trampy brain tumor girl. Panties of sin. Satan's fucking panties."

His hand covered his mouth. He was going to laugh. He was. It was painful to hold it in. The shifting had his head swirling. Yep. Hang over. Craptastic.

He heard her muttering - also worth it.

She rose, clutching her bra, her dress half dangling and she started to, no lie there, tiptoe toward the door.

Oh, dear lord in heaven he had never seen anyone cuter.

Musingly, he said, quietly, "Running huh?"

She jumped. She dropped her bra. She racked her knee on the coatrack by the door and cursed. And she ducked down to find the bra. "I-hah-uh-I'm just…I should get back to my room, right? Early flight and all."

"Hmm." He rolled to his back and over to one arm to watch her, "Feels like a coward move here, Valentine."

She pointed at him, she scrambled to find her bra, "No..no..hah-nope. Not that. Why? Stupid to run. From what? Just..you looked tired."

He laughed, lightly, "Jill?"

"Man whore," She muttered it, shaking her head, "Hair in the eyes and the kissing…the fucking.."

She tripped trying to get her shoe on. She fell into the wall and cursed.

"Jill?"

His voice? All amusement.

"Yes? Hi. Yes. I'm fine. I'm good. Really. Just…I'm good. What is it?"

"You still drunk?"

She stumbled a little. She closed one eye. She pointed at the wall and her hand wavered. "….possibly? Maybe."

"Come back to bed."

She turned and swayed. "…that's…probably a bad idea? Maybe it is. I think. Probably."

He shrugged and rolled over, watching the rain against the door. He waited, listening to her mutter and curse. She said something about brains in her vagina. He smirked.

And she curled against his back.

Her arm slid over him. She muttered, "….don't tell."

He laughed, lightly, and rolled over to face her. She snuggled into him and looped their legs together under the sheet. Their cheeks aligned, he pressed a kiss behind her ear, and he muttered, "Not a soul. Man whore doesn't mean blabbermouth."

Murmuring, she let his hands hike up her skirt and pet her naked hips and bottom. "Man whore code of silence."

Amused, he trailed their mouths together, "….hmm. Something like that."

And they fell asleep wrapped around each other.

She woke him, twice, once when it was still dark. And once when it was peaking up pink and purple for sunrise.

The first time manic and fast. Her hands pumping him like a flat tire until he was hard and ready. He'd rolled on her and they'd both gone in moments.

The second time was slick, smooth, tangled sheets and touching. He'd rolled her over to rouse her. He'd breathed her name. They'd merged - fluidly- the dawn painting faces and shadows soft and trembling.

They'd joined hands over her head and locked eyes. Complicated, she said, and it was. Because she wasn't drunk anymore. She was there, utterly, in the watchful hunger of her face.

Their hands parted, they slid around each other and clung, and moved together - holding on.

Complicated.

The sun was fully up when he opened one eye lying on his belly. He was tangled in the sheets, one leg poking out, hips and butt nicely covered. His mouth felt like gravel and his head like cotton stuffed with thunder.

And alone.

He rolled over, looking for her.

Sneaky little thing. She was gone.

The little hotel stationary was propped by his highball glass on the nightstand. A simple elegant scrawl. One word: Thanks.

And? A whole bottle of Macallan 25-year-old single malt scotch whiskey just...sitting there. A mother fucking eighteen hundred dollar bottle of scotch. Like a gift?

No...like payment for a job well done.

Like a fucking whore.

And still? No Leon.

Amused, insulted, he rolled to his back and scratched his belly, watching the shadows on the ceiling.

He kept on thinking about her until his phone chimed on the floor.

And was still thinking of her when he answered it.

It was, indeed, a rare woman to turn the game so cleanly back on him.

Under his breath, laughing, he muttered, "Women."


	5. Chapter 5

PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS

Episode 5: Secrets (Stupidly) Uncovered

The Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia (Pre-Panic), 2004  
.......

The toothpick in his mouth, in one hand, was very much a replacement cigarette. He rolled it back and forth, sitting on the table with his feet on the chair in front of him in the lecture hall of the FBC building.

At the head of the room, Morgan Lansdale was enjoying all the attention on him.

He was discussing the implication of intel regarding Veltro. He was going on and on and on and on about the ramifications of distribution of potential virus via drones or airborne assault. Airborne? They hadn't faced it yet. It was something potentially devastating given the right mass infection area.

If it happened?

The fall out would be tremendous. It would Raccoon City sanitation big, in half the amount of time. There'd be no need to transmit the virus via bite or blood contact, it would be in the air, surrounding the world in its noxious grip. It would be catastrophic.

Leon chewed his matchstick, mulling it over.

Beside him, a hot little number with a pretty dark bob kept crossing and uncrossing her stockinged legs. The purple stockings were offset by chunky mary janes and a natty little boater hat on her pretty cap of hair in navy. The FBC uniform was not at all flattering but she wore it well. She made it work from the flight attendant top to the funky bottom.

She was also, shamelessly, flirting with him during Lansdale's speech.

"What about a drink?"

He didn't bother to even glance down at her. "I do that too, when I'm thirsty. Seeing as I'm made up of like sixty percent water."

In her defense, she was usually his type. Her body was, clearly, rockin under the ugly outfit she dressed up. She was gorgeous in a big lipped, big eyed, Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft kinda way. She was hot for it, he could practically smell her creaming her panties as she sat there oogling him.

And?

He just wasn't interested.

The shine was off the shitcake for him on chasing the ass lately. Why?

His brain said: "Pfft. You know why."

So, he kinda did. He did. Jill Valentine had used him, soothed, rolled on top of him naked, made him laugh and licked scotch off his lips – and left him a Dear John letter, the equivalent of stud fee, and disappeared.

It was degrading. It was insulting. He felt objectified and used and sorta disrespected.

Which…was almost funny considering he'd done it himself on more than one occasion and karma was apparently, a big, blue eyed, beautifully stammering siren that he seemed to be incapable of forgetting.

It had probably been happening to women for centuries.

And he couldn't get her off his fucking mind.

He was so interested in thinking about the scotch still sitting untouched on his nightstand, that he missed the damn cue for him to add his two cents.

Sexy stewardess smirked, probably thinking it was her. Sorry, doll, he thought, no dice on that. Hard to think about any other girl around with Jill Valentine in his head begging on all fours for it.

He rolled to his feet and moved to the front of the room, chewing his matchstick.

In one hand, he was the most casually dressed guy in the room. He didn't wear a suit like Lansdale. He wasn't wearing a BSAA uniform like O'Brian. He wasn't in uniform like the rest of the room, or bored eyed agents in black.

In the other? His version of casual wasn't typical. It was still pressed Italian linen. It was still Dolce & Gabbana in white with cross stitched appliques of a pair of classic six shooters on the left chest in basic black. The leather jacket he wore was left open, lazily, and had racing stripes on the arm in the same bright white as the shirt. The boots and belt were simple and basic, and cost more than a months rent in New York City. The jeans made to look so carefully dark and so pleasurably faded in the right places – worn and simple – and yet? Not even remotely so.

He mixed designers like he mixed cocktails, effortless and easy. From the Dolce to the Armani to the basic addition of Boss or Ferragamo. A simple man? Sometimes. But he liked nice things. Always had. And he made plenty of money to afford them.

He'd leave the Hanes to guys like Redfield. When the fight was over and the battle won, he liked to curl up in Pertasi and feel a beautiful girl on his dick and Italian silk on his back.

Otherwise?

What the hell was he fighting for?

The Tag Carrera on his wrist wasn't his best watch. But he'd stopped wearing his best watches on work related adventures since some bitch had stolen his fucking Brietling right off his dresser after a roll in the hay in Monte Carlo. Apparently, even if you didn't pay for it directly, some women were still happy to play the whore.

Or pay you like one.

Amused, shaking his head, Leon turned back to address the room. "Here's what we know about Veltro." He angled his head and Jill's eager little friend Quint hit the button to throw the projection on the wall. It ran through data as he talked, highlighting for the room what they'd gathered through interagency cooperation.

He fielded questions, he answered and offered rebuttal. Admittedly, the room was full of the best minds in the business. A little irritated that Chris Redfield couldn't be bothered to hang up his damn gun for one day and attend a necessary pow-wow like this, Leon figured that answer was as simple as it had always been: Redfield was bullets and blood. He'd never, ever, ever been a lecture man. He preferred to get his information second hand from his team when he was ass deep and drowning.

Honestly? It was a waste. Because as much as Leon had a personal grudge against Chris Redfield, he'd never met a guy more invested in the fight. And, in all fairness, there wasn't a guy in this room smarter. Redfield, forced to listen, didn't just listen at all – he lived it. If you got him to sit still for ten minutes to hear you, he absorbed every fucking word you said like he'd make it gospel, throw it on a tablet, and shout it from the mountain like Moses or something.

Redfield was all about whatever made the fight their bitch. He'd worked, once, begrudgingly beside Leon in Kuwait for three weeks during an outbreak. Not the most pleasant of environments, given the state of the political and governmental clime there, but a good experience for both of them in getting to know each other. Redfield, as uptight as he was dedicated, hated the joking and the easy going nature of Leon from the get go. But by the end of the three weeks, they both left with a respect for each other that had been earned in blood.

A chance run in in Texas a few months back had netted them an entire evening of pal-ing around the bars and the unfortunate rodeo event (thanks for the stitches, Redfield. You douche.). Turns out? Away from the fight, Redfield was hell on wheels with a good time. He drank like a fish, never fell over or barfed or made a fool of himself, had ZERO game with the ladies – almost frighteningly didn't seem to give a shit – and got your back in fight.

A game of pool sharking gone wrong, and there were three angry cowboys looking for an ass beating. Chris? No hesitation at all. He'd said, so casually it was amusing, "Hey, Kennedy?"

"Sup?" Leon had been contemplating how to avoid beating the fuck out of three guys in stetsons.

Chris? Nope. Nada. He'd simply put out his hand and said, "Hold my beer."

Now. Usually, this is the moment one would just do that and be ok with. But seriously? He'd have been known as the guy to let Chris Redfield get in a fight on his own while Leon held his beer. No.

Hah.

NO.

Guy code said: Pansy. So, there was none of that.

They'd whipped some ass without breaking a sweat, laughed about it like the good natured bros they'd become, and left behind a legacy of bars, booze, and a lot of broken teeth. Apparently, that meant they were now…friends?

They were something. Redfield was a hard man to call your friend. He was so goddamn boring on a mission that it made your eye twitch.

In Kuwait, eye-ball deep in insurgents. Leon had yelled, "You ever fucking smile man!?"

And, without missing a beat, Redfield had returned, "Not for ugly girls like you."

Amused, Leon had snorted, "What about the ugly ones willing to fuck you?"

And Chris, picking off two with barely leaning out of cover, mused, "They get an eyebrow bobble."

Yep. Funny. A curious thing about that. The Redfield motto though: Nothing Wrong with Towing the Line. In fact, it was Jill Valentine's motto too. So, their sweaty tumble in darkened rooms here? Completely out of character for her (*cough*).

It was utterly fucking gratifying to know it.

Someone brought him out of his reverie and stopped his speech he'd been giving robotically to ask, "What do we have on them to make us think they are a significant threat?"

Leon perched on the edge of the podium, addressing the question, "Nothing, honestly. But snippets and some intercepted transmissions. We know enough to know someone on the inside is feeding them intel. With the little data we've gathered, we can accurately assume there is a devastation level event coming. The issue?"

He shifted and showed the potential targets: no less than thirty.

The room murmured in surprise and discontent.

'Yeah. Exactly. This is with what we know now. It's with the limited information we have. We need you guys out there finding out what we don't know." He signaled again, and Quint jumped, looking surprised. Amused, Leon instructed, "Quint? Come on up here. This is Quint Ketcham, he works for the BSAA, he might be the smartest fucking guy in this room too. Because Quint? He knows how we can start engineering our attacks to strike before a devastation event occurs."

Again, the murmuring. Quint hurried to the front and Leon patted his shoulder, easing his horrible stage fright. "Just talk like you're talking to me, guy. And relax. Not a single person in this room knows what you do. And we're all here for the same reason: to stop it anyway we can."

Quint, looking like he might piss himself, started stammering and showing what he'd discovered about genetic mapping.

Leon stepped through the crowd and let Quint take over the show.

He scanned his phone as he walked, avoiding conversation with any unnecessary agents.

In the hallway beyond the conference room, Clive O'Brian cleared his throat.

Leon glanced up, brow lifted.

And the Director of the BSAA mused, "Anybody ever tell you that you hitched your wagon to the wrong agency?"

Smiling lightly, Leon answered, "All the time actually. You offering me a job?"

O'Brian laughed, easily, "I can't afford you. Your getup there costs more than my car."

Leon snickered a little, "I can't argue with you there."

O'Brian considered him again and speculated, "What about working as an attachment?"

Curious, Leon lowered his phone. Admittedly, people had been courting him since the beginning. It wasn't unusual for an agency to make a play to get him to jump ship. There was little interest in something like that for him usually.

The money was better, the exposure limited but appropriate, he had a pretty loose leash to do what he wanted on a mission without listening to the heehawing of higher ups. There wasn't much else that interested a guy to abandon one post for another. But Clive O'Brian, it seemed, had one thing in the universe the rest of the guys didn't.

He had one specific offering at his disposal worth taking the plunge.

Jill Valentine.

Leon mused, watching his eager face, "I'll work with you, freelance. In an attachment capacity, but field ops only, and at my discretion."

Surprised, Clive put out his hand. "Deal."

"Yeah?"

"You kidding? Deal."

Laughing, they talked business and set up a time to sign some papers on it. At the end of the day, it was still a business.

Even if the business of it, for Leon, was entirely personal.

Two a.m found another knock on his door. Part of him was way too hopeful he'd find her on the other side. He opened the door.

Not Jill Valentine. Not even close.

Quint, looking harried and panicked, "Sir?"

"Leon."

"R-Right, Leon?"

"Sup?"

"We need your help."

He started to answer and somewhere inside the building, someone started screaming, high and loud.

Quint, whispered, watching the truth of it dawn on the face of the man before him, "Yes, sir…I think we found their target."

Outside the window, the sound of gunfire, and the horror of whatever waited there in the dark.

And Leon answered, softly, "…Terragrigia."

Quint held his eyes, looking terrified, "Yes, sir…right here."

The one fucking place that hadn't been on the map at all.

Il Veltro had brought their terror like a blanket of nightmares.

The first wave was entirely airborne. It was entirely unmanned aerial vehicles. The UAVs brought the virus, they brought the fear.

They brought the hunters.

The city did exactly what Raccoon had done. It panicked.

It was streets filled with civilians that were trying to flee, trying to survive, and making things harder than necessary on those sent in to help. The good news? They'd struck at a place filled with agents made to fight bioterror.

The bad news? They'd struck at a place filled with agents made to fight bioterror.

That had been the whole point. They were hitting hard against those they believed were meant to stop the cleansing. In five days time, from the onset of infection, to the height of the panic – they'd lost nearly a third of their forces to the battle of it.

By three weeks, the devastation was so wide spread that they were down to less than a fourth of the people who'd stood in this building and laughed and danced and celebrated a happy alliance. Leon couldn't remember a time when he'd seen more horror. Ever.

It chased around his dreams in a sweaty tangle of death and blood and guts. His liver was bathed in scotch and his lungs black with smoke. Vices - the only thing that kept you alive when you were drowning in horror.

In the conference room, punctuated by the sound of gunfire, of bombs and tanks and battles, Lansdale and O'Brian were fighting like cats and dogs.

The hot little number that had been trying so hard to get on his nuts, Jessica, was swinging her purple clad legs in the seat where she waited. She glanced up at Leon and mused, "Can you hear anything they're murmuring up there?"

Leon swirled his matchstick in his mouth, hearing every word. "Oh, yeah. Lansdale had the Regia Solis recalibrated."

Jessica lifted a brow, "The what?"

"The Regia Solis, the parabolic reflector satellite set up as the cities main power source. He's had it recalibrated like a weapon."

Again, that blank look on her face. Lord save him from stupid women. Leon finished, "He's going to burn alive all the hunters."

"…and the people?" She breathed it in horror now, "What about all the people out there!?"

Leon shook his head and pushed off the table where she sat. "Yeah. Them too."

"Oh my GOD. How is that better?!"

"When saturation levels exist beyond eighty percent of the population, complete sanitation is instituted to counter act the spread of the virus beyond the immediate hot zone."

"….what the fuck does that even mean? Stop speaking geek and lay it out for me."

Leon gave her a long suffering look and answered, "They'd rather burn the whole fucking thing down than risk it spreading. This place is done."

He walked forward and caught O'Brian's loud shout, "You're destroying any evidence at all we might find to stop this from happening again!"

Lansdale shouted back, "I'm doing what's necessary to preserve the state of the world! Sometimes, Clive, you have to sacrifice one hand to save the whole arm!"

Leon interjected, turning their eyes to him, "It's not necrotic flesh, you ferret faced coward! We can win this damn thing if you just call back up! We can take it back from them. You're afraid. You're panicking. You pull the trigger on this and you're killing every mother fucking person out there. Every damn one."

Lansdale shook his head, eyes narrowed, "They're already dead. They're lost. TerraSave has gathered as many survivors as they can. It's a lost cause. The city is lost, Agent Kennedy. The battle is over. Do yourself a favor and get the hell out of here. In about two hours? Terragrigia will join the Titanic at the bottom of the ocean."

Jessica shouted, loudly, "Morgan – there are KIDS out there!"

Lansdale shook his head, "I'm sorry. I am. But I have to think of the greater good here. The decision is made. I suggest you all make your evacuations, and quickly. Things are going to get hot here, very quickly."

Leon spit at him, literally and figuratively, "You're gonna burn in hell for this, Lansdale, mark my words."

"Sometimes you burn in hell to preserve your place on Earth, Agent Kennedy. Remember that when you're out there playing the martyr."

He turned, he left, with O'Brian on his heels shouting at him.

Leon turned, curing under his breath, bureaucrats. Assholes.

The greater good was always whatever they wanted it to be.

He said, "I'm going out into the city. I'm going to find anybody, anywhere, that I can. You with me?"

Jessica looked scared as hell. She looked like she wanted to run for it. And she whispered, "We'll die out there."

Leon gave her a long look, "We might die anyway, Jessica. This way? We die doing our fucking job and trying like hell to keep people alive."

She held his look. She licked her lips. And she breathed, hoarsely, "Ok. Ok. Shit. Ok. I'm in."

"Good. Back lobby, ten minutes."

She came down to meet him in the shivering lobby. The Regia Solis was activating. The time from activation to dispersal of rays was an hour, tops. They'd either be back in this building with any survivors by then, or they'd be toast in the streets.

Either way?

They'd have done all they could.

She'd thrown a flak jacket on over her little uniform. Leon had simply grabbed more guns to add to his arsenal. He was in blue and black from collared shirt to vest to boots. He didn't bother with the flak jacket. His Kevlar vest was as good as it got. He didn't weigh himself down with all the extra gear like that.

One – it never helped anyway. Two – it slowed you down.

The borrowed FBC label and symbol on his back was good enough. Jessica's vest proudly declared FBC in big yellow letters.

Jessica held her assault rifle in shaking hands.

And Leon said, quietly, "Breathe. Pray. Relax. Just another mission, ok? Just another mission like any other. In, out, and back here – nobody has to die. Nobody has to panic. The city is a warzone, but we're still trained for it. Ok?"

Jessica held his steady look and nodded, "R-Right. Right. Yes. I'm in. I'm here. Let's…ok. We're good."

"Good. Back me up, Jessica, and don't freak out on me. We do this together, we get back in one piece. Deal?"

"Deal. Shit. Deal."

"Let's do it."

The door opened.

And hell waited on the other side.

The screaming, the burning, the destruction – Jessica didn't think she'd ever seen anything so awful in her life. She stepped in a puddle of blood as wide as a small kiddie pool and nearly turned back.

His voice was so calm, centering her, "Keep going. Breathe."

She followed him. She'd been trying like hell to get him to sleep with her for weeks now. He wasn't interested. He flirted, he winked, he was engaging and charming and funny. And probably gay based on his disinterest.

He was also incredible.

He fought like a machine. He killed, he moved, he found survivors and directed them back to the building. He killed, he moved, he found survivors. He cleared, he fought, he never, ever, wavered. She'd never seen anyone so calm in combat before.

They turned a corner and twp hunters decided it was a good day to kill them. Jessica peppered the first one with her rifle as it bounced off the top of a car and took a swipe for his head.

Leon ducked, spun back to avoid losing it all together, and Jessica blasted it out of the air above him. The second one sliced for him as he spun and he foot swept it.

It went down, it bounded to get back up, and he dispatched it with two shots to the face.

Jerk. Jerk. Flop.

Dead.

Gesturing with his head, they moved through the narrow alley toward the main fountain in the town center. Jessica made a small sound of horror to see the water turned pink with blood. The mermaid through blood from her hands like some kind of macabre version of a siren in the seventh pit of hell. It was terrifying to watch the bloody liquid spill down her pretty face and over her ample bosom.

Bodies littered the ground in pieces. In places. In unidentifiable chunks. It was confetti of human crap. It was horror in a way the human mind simply couldn't process.

If they stopped, if they looked, they'd see what was left of the those who'd played and laughed and loved in streets that now ran red with their blood.

Their minds insulated them against the full horror of it, and instead left them moving with nothing more than survival and skill.

Something came out of the fountain as they got close. It was…a fish?

It was a fish. Or had started life as one. It wasn't one now. It was a monster. It was as big as a soccer ball and had three friends. They attacked, snarling and snapping, angry, mutated, rotting piranhas looking for their last meal.

He spun a roundhouse and kicked the first one into the statue of the mermaid, watching it splat and tumble. The second got his vest and a close range shot to the side of its head for it. The third met its flopping demise by Jessica's rifle, picked off and tossed away to die in a jerking mess on the ground beside them.

The last one went for his face, Leon rolled is back and felt the air split, and it flew over his head to land behind him.

Jessica shouted, he turned, and a hunter dropped down from the top of the fountain.

Squat, muscled, ugly and flat featured – it was a man but wasn't, it was a frog but wasn't, it was as tall as a ten year old boy and as wide as a horse standing sideways. It won the first round.

It knocked Leon down and sent him skidding in the bloody water.

Jessica went to shoot it and another one leaped from the alley beside her, causing her to back pedal and run, shouting.

Pack – Leon thought as he flipped through the skid and got to his feet – they hunted in packs. Never alone. Ever.

Jessica was gone, running down the alley like an idiot to escape the pursuit of the one warbling high and loud for her blood.

Dumb girl. Dumb, panicking girl. That was the dumbest thing you could do, run from the monsters and let them corner you alone.

Leon kept his in the open, watching it stalk him.

It seemed intelligent enough to be considering the gun in his hands. "Come on guy, I ain't got all day here."

It didn't rush him.

It didn't have to.

Its brother leaped down from the top of the damn building beside them and took him to the ground. Leon shouted, he shot it in the mass of its body as he fell, and the jolt of hitting on his back stole his breath. Two shots in, the muscled body collapsed atop him, the enormous claws of its left hand tickling the stone an INCH from the left side of his face.

Now he had three hundred pounds of muscle atop him like an ugly blanket and the sneering face of the first hunter appeared above him.

Leon shoved at the dead one, a little manically now, and figured a little polite begging couldn't hurt, "Maybe I was a little overly eager with the taunting huh? Would you accept a formal apology?"

It threw those claws at him. So, he was assuming that was a no.

Leon kicked the dead body up, it took the hit, absorbing the slice of death in its huge side with a thunk and a slurp of sound. The hunter roared, it ripped its claws free, and leaped up instead.

Yep.

Couldn't get me slicing, Leon mused, it was going to go ahead and get me with a good old fashion executioner's stab.

Leon kicked at the body, scrambling, pushing and somewhere? Chris Redfield was laughing up his muscled sleeve. THIS is when you wanted big ass muscles to lift huge dead bodies off you. Redfield probably bench pressed three hundred pound dead bodies before breakfast.

The hunter came down – the world went very slow – like a bad movie – and the boom of a gun went off. Loud. SO LOUD. Right above him.

Leon stopped kicking the hunter.

He froze.

And the one above him was blasted out of the sky like the world's scariest game of Duck Hunt.

A face appeared above him, familiar and beautiful.

A long moment passed and Leon mused, "Don't shoot, I'm a human."

Claire studied him on the ground, grinning, "You're an idiot. Come with me if you want to live."

She put her hand down and jerked him clear of the body. Leon grinned and stopped, froze, and shoved her aside so hard she nearly fell down.

"What the fuck!?" She shouted it.

But Leon was already running.

Running. A funny word that. He wasn't running so much as flying.

She watched him dive. She watched him catch something in his arms broadside and keep on flying. And the hunter hit the ground where he'd been a fraction of a second before.

Claire hiwstled, it turned, and she blasted it off it's feet where it turned toward Leon's skidding form.

He hit the wall of a building. He came to a stop.

And he had a little girl in his arms.

Claire's heart jerked, it skittered, and it was déjà vu to Raccoon City and Sherry Birkin.

But this little girl was so small. Tiny. Maybe three years old.

Alone in the streets?! Alone in the burning city!?

Horrifying.

Leon rose, holding her against him. She clung, eyes wide. She was in a filthy nightgown. Her beautiful dark hair was braided to her head. She whispered, "Emlő."

Claire shook her head. She glanced at him. And Leon stroked her sweaty face and murmured, "Hogy hívnak?"

The little girl whispered, "Natalia."

He swiped a thumb over her filthy cheek, and he answered, softly, touching his chest, "Nagyon szép neved van. Leon." He gestured with his head, "Claire."

Claire eyed him, curious. And he said, quietly, "She's Hungarian. She wants her mother."

There was half a woman in the street near where they'd been. Claire shook her head. He nodded, softly. "Let's find Jessica. We're out of time here."

Claire nodded and said, "My boss is here. Somewhere. Neil Fisher. I can't leave him."

"Ok. Listen to me, Claire, very carefully, Lansdale called for santiation."

Claire cursed, spitting on the ground.

"Yeah. You know what that means. And you we have maybe twenty minutes before it all goes down. I got a chopper coming for an evac. On the roof of the FBC building. Get your boss and meet us."

Claire shook her head, lightly, "It's ok. I'm good. We've got a chinook down by the water with survivors in it. You'll be ok?"

He laughed, lightly, "We met? Thank you, for before, always there when I need you."

She winked, she stroked Natalia's hair, "It's a Redfield thing. What can I say? You want me to take her?"

Leon nodded and tried to offer the little girl. She shrieked and clung, speaking rapid Hungarian at him. Leon soothed her, holding on, "Or maybe not. She won't let go and we don't have time to earn her trust for you. Just…where are you taking your survivors?"

"West Coast of the mainland."

"Ok. I'll bring her there."

"Ok." Claire backed up, Jessica came running around the corner, and she mused, "Really? Really, Kennedy? That's your backup?"

He eyed her, eyes twinkling.

"Leave it to you to tie yourself to a barbie doll for a partner." She laughed with delight and ran for it, backing up to shout, "Is this one at least playing for the right side?"

Leon rolled his eyes, Claire hooted out a laugh, and she was gone.

Without a word, Jessica and Leon booked it for the building.

They hit the lobby and the world lit up like someone had cranked on a spotlight. The sky split with smoke and clouds – and fire.

Jessica whispered, "Oh my god…"

And the hunters started to catch fire where they stood. Like ants on a hill beneath a magnifying glass. They just…burned where they walked. They fell to ash as if dusted Buffy the Vampire Slayer style by a stake through the heart.

The building started to heave. It started to rock. It was like blasts of TNT going off all around them.

They hit the stairs and started running.

The glass, so beautiful in the sun, was the bane of their world now. Because it broke, it shattered beneath the terrified claws of fleeing hunters. They poured into the building to escape their death.

Jessica was mewling and racing. The little girl had gone so quiet against him.

Leon led them up the emergency stairwell while the city burned.

The screaming. It was everywhere. It was in his ears and his heart and his head like nothing he'd ever known.

He wondered if he'd ever sleep again.

In this moment?

He remembered why he was in the fight. To stop this from ever happening again.

A hunter leaped down from above and landed with a clang in the metal stairwall. Holding Natalia, he instructed, "Jessica!"

And she shot it off its feet without a word.

Leon kicked the corpse and they ran for it.

Jessica shouted, as they hit the roof and raced for the helicopter hovering and waiting for them, "You owe me dinner!"

He laughed as the leaped into the opening and the damn thing jerked up so fast it was hold on or fall out.

They were airborne, zipping in a semi-circle out toward the water. The FBC building shook, it shivered, and they watched – in abject silence and horror – as the city burned, burned, and was finally washed away in the great waves of the angry sea. The FBC tower reflected the burning rays of its own great power source, a last moment of triumph, and it tilted like the leaning tower of Pisa…sticking up from the derelict wasteland of what was lost beneath the tide of utter devastation.

Jessica whispered, "….are we in hell?"

And Leon's voice was so soft, so soft, as he answered, "Yeah. They call it Terragrigia."

The little girl on his lap was so quiet. She was awake, clinging to him. He adjusted her and sat her in his lap. She curled her fingers in his vest and put her face on his chest, sitting there in silence.

His arms curved around her to hold her and stroke her dirty hair.

How many people had they managed to save?

How many had died burned alive in the streets like vampires in the sunlight?

The pain and grief and horror of it nearly ate him alive as they flew over the pretty blue waters of the Mediterranean.

And he clung to the little girl in his lap nearly as hard as she did to him.

Apparently, everybody needed a hug sometimes.


	6. Chapter 6

**PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS**

* * *

**Episode 6: Cat (Bear) and Mouse**

* * *

**Outside the Former Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia, 2004**

The beach overlooked what was left of a man-made revelation.

The dilapidated tower of the former FBC stood like a testament to the devastation that had occurred there.

Bodies gathered on the shore. They rerouted containment efforts. They spilled three deep to collect survivors and treat the wounded.

There wasn't a face that wasn't bloody or wounded or scared. Children without parents. Parents without partners. People without arms. People without hope.

The burning buildings tumbling into the teeming ocean were a back drop of horror, flickering and licking the night sky with angry tongues of flame. Transfixed, those who'd survived the panic stood in awe, watching the world burn – as Rome once had – and the fall of the first city built entirely to honor Mother Nature herself. With its own resources turned against, Terragrigia had fallen as Troy had with a Trojan Horse slipped into its bosom to watch it rot from the inside out.

Jessica had tears on her face, shivering in the cool ocean air. "How did it all go so wrong? How did this happen?"

Leon had no answer for her.

There was none. There hadn't been Raccoon City either. Just destruction, desolation, and utter ruin. Jessica put her hands to her face and covered the first soft sound of her weeping.

The little girl in his arms watched the fire, quiet, clinging.

She didn't let go. She didn't cry.

He moved to have her examined by medics. He moved to have her cleaned up and bandaged. She had a three inch bleeding wound on her back. She whispered only a single word through it all.

"Demon."

Apparently, evil was same in any language.

She clung to him as he fielded questions and helped with the wounded. She clung while he helped Claire and Fisher separate survivors for evacuation. She wouldn't let go.

Claire touched his arm as he was finishing a debriefing with O'Brian. "Things aren't going well for Lansdale."

Leon licked his teeth, fuming, "Good. I hope they crucify him."

Claire rubbed his arm, lightly, "What happened?"

"He rejected assistance from any of the European Unions. He kept claiming it was under control. And then he pulled the trigger on sanitation." Leon shook his head, shifting the now sleeping little girl in his arms, "He's dirty."

Surprised, Claire looked at his face, "You can't know that. Maybe he just panicked."

Leon turned his eyes to her face. Claire – always looking for the good in people. She was known for it. It was a thing ingrained in her bones. She believed in the kindness of strangers. She believed, deep down, people were redeemable.

It was a wonderful part of her.

It would probably get her killed.

"Oh, he panicked. No kidding about that. But not because of the fear of losing his people. Hell, if we'd opened the door to USSOCOM and the rest of the world fast enough, we'd have beat them back and saved the city. He kept them out. He cock blocked the world. Why?"

Claire whispered, softly, "Because he's hiding something."

"Oh, yeah. You bet your sweet ass he's hiding something. What? What could possibly be worth protecting at the cost of thousands of lives?"

Claire shook her head, eyes jewellike in the flickering fire. Claire – always feeling the loss of it. She took each death like a punch in the face. It hurt her and made her stronger somehow.

She breathed, "If he is, if we can prove it, help me destroy him."

"….with pleasure." Leon shifted again, "Do you have a place I can lay her down? She's so tired. I don't want you to take her with the rest of the survivors. She seems to only trust me."

"I noticed." Claire patted his arm, "There's a tent over there with cots. Lay her down. I'll have her kept an eye on if she wakes and we'll find you."

"Thank you." He stopped. He dropped his forehead to touch it to hers. They closed eyes, breathing together. And he added, "I mean it. Thank you, Claire. For today. For everything."

She laughed, a little wetly, "Maybe we can meet somewhere sometime where we aren't trying to stay alive."

"Hah." He kissed her forehead, "Not our story, dollface. Two steps from death? The story of my life."

"You ain't kidding, Kennedy."

He laid Natalia down. She snuggled the pillow put in her arms and sighed. Leon brushed her filthy hair back from her face.

A baby, he thought, a baby in a nightmare. What would become of her? Another nameless, faceless, number in a system somewhere. A kid without a family. Foreign no less. What would she become with no one to love her?

He rose and went back into the flaming night. Because he wanted to sit there all night and just hide from it. Because part of him wanted to curl up beside that little girl and hold on, just for a minute, until it all faded to a dull roar in the back of his pounding skull.

But there was no rest for the weary here. No rest.

And hell to pay for those who'd over played their hand. Clearly, they didn't know who they were dealing with. He was a dog with a bone, he just never let go.

The night dragged on. The fight went on against Lansdale. He was taking fire from all sides now. O'Brian was ruthless. He was throwing it down in shouting so loud it should have shaken the heavens. Speaking of dogs with bones, Leon thought watching him, the guy was as relentless as Chris Redfield.

As if he'd cued up the soundtrack to Rocky, the man in question came through the firelight from the stairs. Always big, Redfield had taken a turn into massive. He was all muscle, from tits to toes. He was in full gear and apparently feral.

His face looked like a mask of rage in the orange glow.

He joined the fight with O'Brian.

And his rage was palpable.

Claire could be seen from where Leon stood, throwing her hands on her brother's chest to shove him back. Redfield was in the face of the other man shouting, throwing his arm back to point at the burning city. Lansdale offered the stacks of files in his hands and Redfield slapped them away.

The three goons with Lansdale surged forward like only muscle could.

Leon rolled his matchstick and moved over the rocky ground.

That was thing with it. Maybe you didn't always agree with how someone handled it, Redfield was hotheaded and quick tempered, he exploded like a grenade all over those who got in his way. But you got a brother's back in moments like this.

Claire kept shouting and shoving, as if she'd stop him with her tiny ineffectual fists.

O'Brian? Didn't bother. He was shouting too.

A big guy was standing to one side, trying to soothe the mood in a crisp Italian accent and wearing a big FBC vest. He was careful NOT to put his hand on Chris Redfield.

As Leon got close enough, he heard the words finally.

"—MURDERER! You mother fucking COWARD!" Chris roared it and it echoed over the twisting ocean, "I had a thousand men on these shores looking to move in! I couldn't get the fucking boats passed your guard! You got all those people killed! Don't stand here and spout protocol and procedure and life to infection ratios at me! It's not SCIENCE! It's SURVIVAL! We could have SAVED THAT CITY!"

Claire saw Leon coming. Her face was half horror, half fear. She knew how this ended. With Lansdale on his ass and Chris in custody.

Lansdale, surprisingly, wasn't backing down.

"I did what needed done! I did what had to be done! That city was DONE! You weren't there. You can't know! There was NOTHING LEFT TO SAVE!"

Chris surged forward against his sister's desperate restraint, "You bureaucratic piece of SHIT! There were PEOPLE that needed saved! Lives! Husbands, wives, daughters and sons...it wasn't YOUR CALL!"

The man beside them grabbed Claire, in the nick of time. Because the goons with Lansdale finally figured Chris was close enough.

The first one swung, the guy tugged Claire out of the way and spilled her against him to back up, and the table was the first casualty. Chris ducked the swing, caught the wrist to pull the arm over and drove two solid uppercuts into the exposed side of the attacker.

The other guy took that moment to make his move and grab for Chris while he pummeled his opponent.

Leon, rolling his matchstick, kicked the table from underneath it. Casually, almost, like kicking a ball back to a playful kid.

It went up; it smacked into the face of the second suit, and sent him staggering. Before it fell, Leon hip kicked it again and smashed it like a weapon into his stumbling form. It sent him over to his back in the sand.

The second one came in with a nice hook. Leon feinted left, hooked ankles with him, jerked his leg and sent the man stumbling. As he tried to come back again, Leon kicked him in the ass, hooked arms with him like they'd square dance, and hip checked him to throw him out into the sand.

The man hit his face, scooped sand with his mouth like a shovel, and skidded to a stop.

Tonelessly, Leon called, "Stay down. Don't be stupid."

Sometimes goons weren't completely stupid, as he stayed down.

The guy in the vest shoved Claire behind him.

That move alone saved him a fist to the face.

Chris rolled the struggling attacker in his arms and kicked him in the back of the knee to put him down kneeling in the sand. His hands shifted like he'd -what? Break the dude's neck?

What was that?

But Leon knew what it was. Ingrained survival. You killed your attacker. It's how you stayed alive. The fight was on the other man like a beast from the confines of his flesh to over come him. Like a werewolf in the full moon. The fight made you a monster. It sucked away your soul and left you a shell bent on killing.

Redfield was a rage filled angel bent on vengeance for the dead. He'd kill anyone in his path to do it. Personal feelings aside, that conviction for avenging the lost was something they shared between them in blood.

Leon shouted, "Redfield! Stop!"

And Chris hesitated, changed whatever game plan he'd had, and instead kicked the man to his face on the ground.

But he advanced on Lansdale, and everyone knew how that ended.

Claire made a sound and Leon stepped between them.

They bumped chests. Chris was all stamping bull and flaming fury.

Leon spoke, quietly, earnestly, "This isn't how you do it. You know that. Ease back. Ease  _back."_

Chris eyed him. Leon laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Ease back. He's just the mouthpiece. You know that too. These people here are scared, they've had the worst three weeks of their lives. They don't need to see this, feel it, smell it – leave it for now. And help the ones we can."

Chris was shaking. Leon understood the rage, maybe better than anyone. It boiled in his blood like poison. It infected like the T-Virus, wiping away your need to be reasonable and leaving the unquenchable question of atonement behind. It was a voracious predator, it devoured you until there was nothing but a promise of a reckoning that kept you alive.

He said it again, softly, "Now we help the ones we can. Later? We avenge the ones we lost. That's how we do this. Help me do that. He stopped you from helping in that city. But now? Now you can help."

Chris nodded, one sharp jerk of his head. Leon patted his shoulder and backed off. Claire mouthed her thanks at him.

The man in front of her intoned, gently, "I understand the need to fight. It's still in me too. I think…if I'd just killed more of them, maybe I'd be able to sleep tonight without choking on regret for the ones we left behind." The badge on his chest said: Luciani.

Leon intoned, softly, "You're working for the wrong side, Luciani."

"It's Parker." They held eyes. And he added, "And I'm thinking you're right about that."

Leon nodded, feeling the teeth of pain in his gut that tried to rip a hole and have him drowning in his own guilt. He turned and left the tent.

The talking was quiet now. The beast quelled. The rage reduced to embers, waiting to ignite when the time was right.

But it burned now like the city beyond the swirling sea. It burned like Raccoon did. Always. In the back of his mind like a ghost he could exorcise. Like a nightmare he'd never purge. One more reason to sleep with the lights on.

One more horror to add to his bevy of endless reasons he couldn't sleep.

One more reason to remember why he kept picking up the gun when he'd rather put it down forever.

He didn't pick up the gun now. He picked up the little girl in the tent. He took her home with him like a teddy bear.

He put her to sleep in room beside his in the suite they gave him over looking the burning remains of the place they'd all gathered to celebrate the beginning of an alliance among all those who stood like a shield against the dark.

Most of those people – playing pass the coconut, dancing and laughing, swimming and singing and cutting loose. Most of them had died there. Died in a floating paradise.

Natalia woke once, shaking, scared. He bathed her, soothing her with stories of mermaids and magic, he put her in one of his shirts like a nightgown. She clung, listening to him talk – so quiet – no crying. For a three year old girl, the lack of crying was bad. It said trauma deep enough to have her hiding inside herself.

So he simply talked while she sat on his lap and watched the little television play cartoons quietly. He sat her in the spill of blankets and fluffy pillows and moved to his bag by the wall. It was the only one he ever brought with him. The only thing he'd grabbed beside his gun and this girl fleeing that burning city.

In smooth Hungarian, he told her a story as he opened the bag and pulled out the little bear inside. He told her about Sherry Birkin, the girl in Raccoon who'd fled for her life with him and Claire, the little girl who'd needed – not a hero – but a friend. He told her about Lottie, the bear she'd given him after that long night. Lottie – the friend who went with him everywhere – when the world needed a hero, and the hero needed a friend.

He placed the little bear, red and bright and smiling, in the girls arms. She tugged its ears, poking its smiling face, and kissed it. Heart hurting, he stroked her dark hair, and told her all about a hero who had this bear when needed a little good in his life. And how the bear needed a new friend, one who'd never let her go.

Natalia laid against his chest, holding Lottie like a wooby. She whispered, in fractured English, "I will take care of her. Like you took care of me."

Leon kissed her forehead, rocking her a little. His voice hitched, bringing the pain like claws from a hunter into his chest, "I know you will, you can be brave together."

She fell asleep peacefully, clutching the bear like the pillow she'd held in the tent. It seemed to ground her. It seemed to offer her a kind of peace. It had spent plenty of nights sleeping beside him in hell holes and dives and darkness. His only light. And now hers.

A little girl with nothing left to lose.

The little airport size bottle of whiskey from the mini fridge went over some ice and right into his belly. It burned. It felt like fire in his heart. It singed the edges of the anger that tried to clog up his arteries and cut off the blood flow to his soul.

HIs phone signaled on the dresser with a text message.

Leon picked it up watching the unfamiliar number populate.

**U ok?**

Amused by a random text from a mystery number, he texted back:  **Who is this?**

A moment passed and it blinked again:  **Door.**

Without missing a beat, he answered:  **That's a dumb name. Did the other kids laugh at you growing up?**

The little knock on the door had him setting the phone down, picking up his Magnum, and ranging himself beside the door instead of in front of it. He put a hand on the knob and called, softly, "Identify yourself."

There was a small muttered curse, "...Mr. Kennedy, it's the middle of the night. What kind of assassin knocks first?"

Shit.

Surprised, he opened the door.

She was filthy. Sweaty and covered in soot and smelled of sea water. Her uniform was a wet weather top and cargo pants. Her baseball hat was stuck to her soaked her.

She plucked the Magnum from his surprised fingers and set it on the table as she came inside.

And he finally spoke, "How'd you find me?"

Jill shook her head, she answered, quietly, "Nice digs. USSTRATCOM has plenty of money to toss you into the good places huh?"

"I don't know. They put me up in that Hyatt in Terragrigia...that didn't turn out so well."

Jill nodded, facing the balcony and the fire that still blazed beyond the boiling sea. "...I ran away to avoid you."

Curious, he tilted his head. The door of his room was still wide open. "I know that."

Her voice broke, surprising him, "I ran away and a week later the attack came."

Shit. He got it now. The guilt. He shook his head, but he didn't move from where he stood looking at her, "Not your fault. Don't do that. You know that. Don't."

Jill shook her head. She took off her ball cap and tossed it on the table by his gun. "Close the door, Kennedy. Unless you want me to leave."

He kicked it closed without turning around. "Why are you here, Jill?"

She moved out into the air, smelling the sea and the distant stench of sulfur and death. She grabbed the railing, watching it all burn.

"I was in the gym. Just beating up the heavy bag. And the news came on. The media helicopter just...circling the wreckage. We tried to get back in...but Lansdale..."

Leon crossed his arms over his chest, watching her, "I know that too. This isn't your fault, Jill. Any of it. I don't know how many ways I can say it. And it doesn't answer the question. Why are you here?"

She spoke, softly, "I helped with the clean up. I kept...no one could tell me...finally..." She breathed, "Finally I found Claire."

Oh.

He blinked, he waited, and he finally responded, "You thought I was dead."

She shook her head. She shivered. And she turned back into the room. "I'm dirty. Can I use your shower?"

"….sure."

"Thanks."

She passed by him. She still hadn't looked at him. Not directly. Finally, her eyes drifted up to his face when they were shoulder to shoulder.

Her heart hitched. He was filthy. He was caked with old blood. His?

The shirt he wore was torn on one shoulder and caked to his belly like glue. She touched his chin, just a single thumb. Interesting, he thought a little desperately, as it felt better to let her do that than a hand in his pants.

Softly, she queried, "You're alright?"

There was something gentle and nurturing on her face. Something yielding. He felt it like a hug. And his voice was hoarse when he answered, "I'll live."

She nodded.

She guided his face down and pressed their foreheads together. Her face turned up, his angled down, and it was a smooth, simple, slide of lips. Eyes open, watching each other.

Jill whispered, gently, "I'm glad you're ok."

It shivered between them. Whatever this was, it was dangerous. Maybe more so than any fight he'd ever run into. Because this girl was sneaky. A thief, they said, she was trying to steal pieces of him just by existing.

He whispered back, "Why are you here, Jill?"

He almost didn't hear her respond, almost, "...I missed you."

His hands shifted. They latched at her arms and pushed. She went into the wall and opened her mouth. Wet and fast, he devoured the taste of her. She gasped and keened a little, hands in his jacket, stroking and scratching. Her foot hooked behind his calve to pull him forward against her body. She rubbed all over him as he pressed into her hard enough to steal her breath and leave his own shaking.

Yeah. Dangerous. And the first time his mind was quiet of the horror in weeks. He was going to use her like a bottle of scotch - but better - better - because she wouldn't leave him hung over and hurting. She'd leave him throbbing and full.

He was the mouse, he realized, and she was the cat. She kept finding him. She kept showing up to swallow pieces of him whole and leave him wanting more.

Lord. She was more addictive than scotch.

He let her go and she slid away, leaving him leaning there in her wake.

She passed by him into the bathroom.

The door closed quietly.

He waited, listening to the shower fire up. Finally, the door opened and stayed open.

His choice, he knew, to go in or stay out. He glanced at his face in the mirror by the bed. He looked tired, beaten down, used up and haunted.

His choice on how the nightmare ended: Alone in bed.

Or in the shower with Jill Valentine.

He set the locks on the door. He shot back another tiny bottle of whiskey. He jerked off his shirt and threw it aside.

And he walked into the foggy heat of the bathroom without looking back.


	7. Chapter 7

**PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS**

* * *

**Episode 7: The Regia Solis (Burns you alive)**

* * *

**Outside the Former Floating Aquapolis of Terragrigia, 2004**

They fell asleep on the couch by the balcony. Her curled atop him in one of his shirts. Him in his jeans, bare chested, bare footed, and stroking the smooth skin of her naked outer thigh.

He figured he'd wake up to find her gone again. But he didn't.

The sun was muted and gray with the promise of rain when his eyes drifted open. He had one foot braced on the floor, one arm slung behind his head and the other curled over his belly. He blinked in the dirty light, waiting for the fatigue to hit.

But he wasn't tired. Because he'd slept.

No dreams. No tossing and turning. He hadn't plowed himself with booze to do it.

He'd just slept.

He was alone on the couch.

But she was in the kitchen with Natalia.

He heard them talking, quietly. Surprised, Leon rolled up to see them.

Jill was still in his shirt and the clock on the stove told him it was barely nine in the morning. Six hours. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept six hours straight.

Apparently, spending fifteen minutes kneeling in the shower with your tongue in Jill Valentine worked like taking valium. Soapy stroking and oral sex was the answer to how to purge your demons, it seemed. She'd thrown one leg over his shoulder and just came apart.

She was, literally, the most honest woman he'd ever put his hands on. There was no play acting with her. She didn't bother to fake it. She just…gasped and stammered and begged a little for what she wanted. It was ungodly hot. It was impossibly refreshing.

He moved into the kitchen to find them making pancakes together.

Leaning on the wall, crossing his arms, he watched them.

The little girl used the spatula to turn the fluffy little cakes in the pan with her tongue tucked between her teeth.

Jill, still in his shirt, helped her put them on a plate.

Natalia saw him first and giggled.

She giggled.

His heart stuttered in his chest a little bit. The little girl who didn't cry. Who barely said ten words. Jill had her laughing.

He liked this girl. In his shirt, who showed up at his door and just took what she wanted from him and left him aching for her. Why was she playing so hard to get?

It was a curious thing.

The t-shirt on the little girl was big and looked adorable. The t-shirt on Jill left a whole lot of breast poking against it. It looked adorable, honestly, and would look even better on the floor. It wasn't the first time he'd had two girls in his kitchen at the same time, but it was the first time they were there cooking instead of getting a drink.

Generally, two women in his kitchen ended up two women in his bed.

Interestingly enough, one had slept in his bed. One had slept on the couch with him. He hadn't fucked a soul last night, not with anything but his tongue, and yet he was happier this morning than he'd been in so long he couldn't even remember.

He remarked, softly, "You stayed."

Jill lifted her head. Her skin flushed pink and delighted him. "Hi…yeah. Uh…so…I was gonna leave right? And go back down to help with clean up. But I was trying to find my hat and…" She gestured to Natalia, giving him wide eyes, "Did you steal a kid, Kennedy? You know that's a crime right?"

Leon smiled, lightly, "I didn't steal her. Though you look like you might want to."

"I'm thinking about it, honestly. She's adorable. She's Hungarian?"

"She is. You speak it?"

"Some. My Grandma. Long story but enough I can get by." Jill helped Natalia pour syrup on her cakes and set her down at the little table to eat.

Natalia put Lottie in the seat beside her with her own plate of pancakes. Touched, Leon kissed her head. The little girl giggled again, stuffing the sweet cakes into her mouth while watching the t.v. drone on with some cartoon.

He paused, watching it. Jill laughed lightly, flipping cakes onto a plate for him, "Good stuff, Mr. Kennedy?"

"….why the hell does a sponge live in a pineapple under the sea?"

Jill laughed again, eyes twinkling. "Hmm. Why does the snail meow?"

"Good question….am I high?"

And Jill giggled.

He liked her giggles. She was almost as cute as Natalia. Almost.

Testing them both, he moved into the kitchen to join her. Yep. The closer he got, the more flustered she became. She bobbled the milk, she knocked over the box of pancake mix, she started speaking fast and stuttering a little.

She was something else. He'd put his hands all over her the night before. She'd humped against his face like a desperate little thing. And here she was flustered and blushing.

She was stammering a little, "…so I was gonna go back down to the beach to help after breakfast here…I thought you might..but you don't-you know-you can do whatever-because…you probably have other stuff to..you know…"

He turned her into the counter. She felt the fire hit her ears and likely set her hair alight. And she stared really hard at his shoulder. "…or not…if-oh—hah..ok..hi."

She dropped the spatula to grip his arms. His hands went right up under his shirt to stroke her butt and she made a small sound like a purr as he kissed her breathless.

When neither could breathe, he let go of her mouth. She laughed, hoarsely, and he answered, "Hi. Good morning. I'm glad you stopped by, Jill."

"Oh…yes…"She wiggled in his grip, delighting him, as he slid his stroking hands up her back to make her shiver, "…yes…well…I was here already right? So-it's good to…"

They kissed again, Jill's hands fisting in his hair to eat his face.

Her voice cracked when they separated, making him kinda love her. He kissed her neck, softly, and she tilted her head for it. "…interdepartmental…cooperation. Yes?"

Eyes bright, he leaned back to see her face, "Right. Would you like to see my briefs? I could use your input."

Lord. She laughed. Her eyes just..he…she just laughed, "That…is…kinda perverted? I think?"

"A little," He grinned, softly, "Unless you realize I meant files. Then? No. Just business."

"…oh…shit. Hah. Right. Just…let me…" She slid her hand down his belly and made him jump. He humped at her and she bumped into the counter. It brought her mouth open on a laugh. "Sorry. Startle ya?"

"Apparently." They were both all left feet together it seemed. He let her play around in his pants and lifted a brow at her, "How's the search going, Agent Valentine? Find what you're looking for in there?"

She blushed, laughing hoarsely, "Yep. Uh…no briefs. So…yeah…"

"Hmm. No boxers either."

And she flushed. Like a tomato. She felt like her face was on fire. "Right. Nothing. Just…oy…you are enjoying this wayyyy too much, sir. I promise you."

"Really? I'm not the one rooting around in your pants."

"...you want to?"

He sooooo did. He fed her his tongue instead while she made small sounds like sighs mixed with squeaks.

Her hand closed around him, his body just…sorta humped into her fist on its own, and he muttered, "Jill?"

"Mmm, yes? Hi. I am Jill. So yeah."

She was the cutest fucking thing he'd ever seen. It was that simple. "Right. You are. And me?" He kissed her while her head spun, "I'm Leon.  _Leon._ Say it. Most girls with their hands around my dick call me Leon."

She tugged on him hard enough it stole his breath. And he just kinda rubbed against her like a pervert for a minute while she squeaked and grabbed his ass with her other hand.

LORD. Like two stupid teenagers groping in a car or something.

He grunted, trembling a little, "Holy…hah…oy…ok. So, we can't…do that." What was he saying? She was rolling her fist on him. His brain tried to find what he'd been saying. "Wait wait wait…wait…I think? Yeah, wait."

What? Why were they waiting? His dick didn't have the answer. But, based on what she was doing with it, she clearly thought it might have a genie ready to pop out – since she wouldn't stop rubbing it.

Jill licked his ear and bit at the side of his neck. He closed one eye, like he was drunk and trying to stop seeing double. And she squeaked when she talked a little and made him laugh as he started to pull away, "…wait? What…? Just…come back here and let me keep looking for your briefs….you know…with my eyes a little…and…my mouth maybe?"

His brain pulled a Jill Valentine and said: %$G^&* because, again, he was pretty sure she was talking about putting him in her mouth. Which…his hands caught her face because she was kissing down his belly and making him forget what he was protesting.

He pulled her up, holding her still despite the urge to let her keep going. He laughed again, half nuts, half fraying self-control.

And there was a special place in heaven for him because he didn't let her do just that, "Honey, I'd love to pull up your shirt, flip you around, and drill you on the counter there – but there's a three year old girl about twenty feet away at the table eating. I don't think she'd appreciate the show."

RIGHT. She'd forgotten in her haze of horny self-reflection, that there was a child requiring their attention.

Jill laughed, softly, "Right. Hah. Of course. So…not now then."

His voice was breathy, making her kinda nuts for him, "…right. Not now."

Yet her damn hands were still playing in his pants like she might eventually get that genie to just POOF out and grant her some wishes. She'd get something to poof out, but it wouldn't do much for the wishes. Unless her wish was a pearl necklace…than…maybe…

The thought made him laugh at himself. LORD. He was fifteen years old apparently.

He laughed and slid her hands off him. She looked so sad, like he'd kicked her puppy.

"Jill...what are you doing to me here?" He took her face and kissed her, pinning her against the counter. She made little hmm hmm sounds and grabbed his butt over his jeans. He laughed into her mouth and let her go. "Jill…jesus..."

"No…Jill VALENTINE. But…you can call me jesus if you want, I don't care. Put your hand back on my butt though…for a second." She rubbed on him and had him just…hugging her. He hugged her and had her freezing in his arms.

He laughed and lifted her against his front. Jill blinked, swirling in her fog of want for him, and then she looped her arms around his neck and hugged back. She whispered, softly, "...better?"

Yeah. There was that. She'd come here to make it better. This girl that wouldn't call him Leon. That stuttered and gasped and came against his face almost crying and clutching and ripping him screaming from whatever pile of piss and shit he found himself buried in.

How did he dwell anywhere dark at all when she was there?

She was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. Natalia laughed high and happy from the living room. She mimicked Gary the Snail in broken English. "Me-owsh! Meoooowsh!"

And that was the cutest thing he'd ever seen too.

Jill leaned back enough to see his face. He pressed a kiss to her mouth, smooth, soft. And it stole her breath.

Different. Infinitely.

He spoke, gently, volleying his eyes over her face. "Yeah, better. Thanks for coming by, Jill."

She caught his face, tracing his mouth. She tugged him down to kiss him again, eyes open. "...you're welcome...kiss me again."

And he said, quietly, "Meowsh indeed."

Yeah, Jill thought, purrrrrr.

And he kissed her again, eyes closed now, and lost.

* * *

There was little enough to do for the clean up effort. The city was done burning but still smoldering. The water was blackened and oily in rings where it left the sad visage of its former glory.

Leon took Natalia to the zoo as the afternoon wore on. She laughed at the monkeys and the was over joyed to pet a giraffe. They rode the skylift around the entire zoo to see it from high above. The aerial view enthralled the little girl. She clung to him pointing and babbling in broken English.

He worked on her English with her and she fell asleep peacefully in the back seat of his rental car as he navigated traffic back to his hotel.

He knew the question was coming on what to do with her.

He wanted to keep her.

But the idea of ludicrous. It was impossible. He had no way to take care of her. Even if he retired from active service, what would he do? Teach?

It gave him pause. He considered it as he drove. He had a degree that said he could. He'd gotten his bachelor's degree shortly after getting back from Spain. He was working on his Master's Degree in between missions.

Why not?

And why teaching?

He knew why, objectively, because teaching is how you stopped people from turning into monsters. You taught them the right from the wrong. You gave them the tools to learn from the past and make a better future. You helped build tomorrow today. All the cliches and one liners and truth in each one, it's why he wanted to teach.

He'd figured, once, it would be via USSTRATCOM. He'd retire from active duty to train new recruits maybe.

But now?

Maybe he now he retired and taught college history and-what?

And what?

Raised a kid alone?

Aloud, he mused, "Why not?"

A good question. Why not? If he was a woman, no one would bat an eye at the idea of adopting this kid. Why was it wrong because he was a twenty seven year old man considering it?

A double standard.

Entirely.

So what if...he pulled the trigger and adopted her and got a nanny for her while he was on missions?

He laughed, lightly. No. To leave the little girl in a place where he might die on her anyway? She needed a good home. With loving parents. With at least one parent home to raise her right while he was gone.

Again, aloud he mused, "So maybe you get married."

Whoa.

WHOA. WHOA WHOA WHOA. That...that was-so...NOT the point here.

Marrying some plain faced girl to give a kid a mom? That was just stupid.

So maybe he'd marry a hot faced girl. Surely he knew one that would marry him and want to raise this kid with him. Ok. Hah. Ok. He knew plenty. But the idea of marrying any of them, all of them, even CONSIDERING marrying them made him squirm in his seat like he had to take a dump and had a turtle head poking out back there.

Either way, his time was up to decide as he was rolling into the parking lot to meet Claire with her.

For the time being, she was going to be under the care of TerraSave. They'd work on locating a safe, secure, and productive foster family for her. Someone screened a hundred different ways to be sure they would care for her.

He rolled to a stop and climbed out of the car.

Natalia clung to him, holding Lottie between them. She whispered, so quietly, as he walked with her toward Claire. " _szeretlek_."

His chest hurt as he set her down and crouched, rubbing her arms in his hands, "I love you too, Natalia. I'll come see you, as soon as I can."

She nodded, eyes wide. Still, no crying. Still, nothing but the edges of something like emptiness that scared him. HE watched the laughter fold back into the emptiness and die. She would revert, he knew it in his bones, to the silent and owl eyed doll he'd found.

Claire knelt beside him, smiling softly, "Hi, Natalia. I'm Claire. I'm going to make sure you're safe and happy, I promise. Will you go with me?"

Natalia nodded, porcelain cheeks dry, eyes empty, "Lottie?"

Claire nodded, surprise flashing on her face. She looked at Leon and whispered, gently, "You gave her Lottie?"

He smiled, stroking her little cheek. "I did. I think Natalia needs a friend right now."

"And what about you?"

He touched his cheek to Claire's head where she laid it gently on his shoulder, "I'm ok. I have you. And Natalia."

In Hungarian, he spoke to the girl about how long to wait for him. How to tell what day it was and when he'd come. She nodded, she leaned forward and kissed his mouth, soft, butterfly light.

And she whispered, "...god protect you from the demons."

Claire picked her up. They all rose.

And the little girl watched him as Claire took her toward the car to settle her in for the drive. She waved, clutching Lottie against her, eyes wide and dry.

He waved back until the dark sedan pulled away and left him standing in the dying sun.

He stayed there until the darkness ate away the edge of the dying die and spilled the night around him like a blanket made of regret.

Leon went to the beach to sit in the sand, watching the ocean lap lazily now at the smoking ruins of Terragrigia.

His feet curled in the fluffy white, toes digging a little. His boots set beside him, he tried to picture the city as it was, glorious and proud...and already his mind couldn't find the image of it. It was lost under the ruin.

Like Raccoon, which was no more now than the bare bones of a necropolis awash in a crater of desolation.

Behind him, her voice didn't even startle, he just knew she'd be there.

"I knew where you'd be."

He nodded, watching the moonlight on the shimmering curls of smoke. The FBC tower reflected it like a mirror, casting fragmented prisms of silver onto the churning waves. "It's peaceful here."

"...I'm sorry about Natalia."

He shrugged. "Part of what we do, right? Say goodbye."

Jill sat down beside him, wearing jeans and a little white t-shirt. Her dark hair was in a braid down her back. She reached over and touched his bent knee, squeezing.

His hand laid down atop hers and blended their fingers.

She answered, softly, "Sometimes the goodbye is harder than anything else."

He nodded, watching the oily water lap and roll on the humps of the few buildings not utterly lost at sea.

And she added, "Tell me what you wanted. Let it out."

He flicked the ash on his cigarette, the flaming orange tip lit again as he inhaled sharply and let the acrid smoke loose from his lungs, and he said, "I wanted to keep her."

The phrase broke at the end, pissing him off. He shook his head, kicking the sand with his foot. "Stupid right? Stupid."

Jill lifted his arm and slid under. His hand curled at her shoulder and hers slid around his waist. She turned toward him and he turned his face against her neck.

His breath hitched, stealing her heart. And she answered again, gently, "Stupid to think you wouldn't want that actually. Love doesn't happen because it's right. It just happens. And it can't always be the right time. It can't always last. But it doesn't mean it can't linger, it can't matter, and that it will be easy to let go. It's harder than hell to let go. Impossible. And sometimes? It's the only thing we can do."

Man-whore, Jill thought, no. She got it now. She understood it. Fucking a stranger was easy. It was effortless for a man like this. It was harmless and fun and fleeting. But, like her, when he cared - he got lost in it, he fought for it, died for it, bled for it and bled from it.

And buried it under booze and good humor and faceless fucking.

He shook his head, denying it, and the comfort of it. He started to let go and she took his face. She laid her forehead on his. She kissed his mouth, soft and easy. And she whispered, "Let it go. It's how you heal it. Denying it makes it worse. Let it go."

He relaxed into her grip, clinging a little. "...sometimes I hate my life, Jill. What we do? I hate how it makes me feel. How do I let that go?"

She nudged his face up and kissed him. Lingering now, easy. It blended their skin and noses and tongues. Like she'd offered him some kind of answer in her mouth.

When they stopped kissing, they were both breathless.

And she answered him, shaking a little. "Come home with me and I'll show you."

This kept happening, Jill thought as they made it to her hotel room and fell on each other. It wasn't like that first time, not exactly, not entirely.

It was still craving each other. But it was craving something more than that.

What?

They rolled across the bed as they merged, Jill watching him raptly above her as he leaned over her in a push up motion and she stroked his chest, enraptured by this face as he claimed her. His face showed everything. There was no clenched jaw and hiding here. He watched her as she watched him, feeling it, taking it, rising and falling and conquering it. Her hands shifted and caught his hips, holding on, as she spread her thighs further like a vessel for him and he surged desperately between her legs. He drove his pain into her body and it blended on the edge of want, turning them both to ashes with the fire of it.

She swallowed his pain with her own until it was forgotten, for them both, on a wave of hunger for each other.

What was it that bound them?

She gripped his face to bring him to her mouth. Her body clenched, her spine bowed, and she gasped, "Look at me...Leon."

He did, making some small sound of surprise, and he caught her face to look at her while he plunged. She gasped, gripping his arms to hold on, and demanded, "Forget it all. And keep looking at me, Leon."

God.

She watched the spear of pleasure on him, in her, for them. He spit sweaty hair from his eyes and she gripped it to slide it out of his face to see him. His voice was hoarse and trembling as he answered her, "Say it again."

She rose, brushing mouths with him, and gasped, "Leon."

Their bodies merged together madly, and they hit the edge of that need together in a shaking rush. His name spilled out of her mouth as she came, bucking, and he answered it with hers, binding them together with sweat, skin, and sinful need.

That was what it was, Jill thought, need. It was wet and raw between them. Need. To have something, anything, everything - to hold onto.

She'd known it was wrong to show up in his room that night. She knew it was wrong now to roll with him across the bed and clutch each other in the aftermath of their shared release. Because it mattered.

She couldn't make him Mr. Kennedy anymore.

Somewhere along the way, he'd just become Leon. And she was out of reasons to stay away.

It would be ok. It would. It wouldn't get complicated.

In the six years since Raccoon City, they'd never even met until a few months ago. The universe saw fit to keep them apart. It was unlikely they'd ever take a mission together or something (*cough*). The powers that be didn't seem to think they belonged in the same world together (-_-). They were, by all accounts, perfect strangers turned lovers in a business where they wouldn't brush against each other professionally. So the risk of fallout was minimal.

They didn't move in the same circles. They didn't even run into each other at events usually. It would be ok.

No conflict of interest to get involved.

It's not like they were going to end up working together or something.

She couldn't think of a safer man to have a torrid love affair with. Content with that argument, Jill drifted off to sleep wrapped around him like an octopus.

He clutched her like a doll, curling against her back to stroke her while he held her to him. He didn't have Lottie. He'd let her go into the arms of a little girl that part of him had wanted to keep.

He wasn't a man who kept things. They slipped through his fingers while he tried to hold on.

He rolled Jill over in his arms. She looped her arms at his waist. They blended legs and she rubbed deliciously on his though with the moist heat of her. Her breasts crushed against his chest, sweaty and slick. He kissed her mouth and watched her eyes in the dark.

And he wanted to keep her too.

But he made peace with the knowledge that sometimes the fire that he kept chasing wasn't meant to keep him warm on a cold night. It was meant to burn him alive and leave him blistered and smoking.

But that didn't stop him from holding on to her and watching her eyes while they both fell asleep -willing to risk the burn for one more moment near the fire.


	8. Chapter 8

**PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS**

* * *

**Episode 8: All on the (One little pink) Line**

* * *

**Dallas, Texas, 2004**

At the little table in the corner, two men sat with their heads bowed and their voices low.

Around them, the small bar lulled happily. It was a honky-tonk, for lack of a better word, and flush with rodeo memorabilia, kitschy cowboy tributes, and a fair amount of animal heads mounted like trophies on all the walls. It was horns and heavy-handed decorations made of fur, spurs, and boots. Peanuts littered the floor in an homage to a good steakhouse and spittoons took up corners for the spit of the average tobacco chewing bad ass.

At the table, the two men there were speaking in tones lost amongst the rolling strain of bluegrass country and the twang of karaoke.

No one looked twice at them, no one bothered, no one that milled and laughed, that danced and kicked up their boots, understood the nature of their conversation.

Two men with a hidden agenda. Two men with a purpose. Two men with a devious plan.

And nothing to lose.

In the middle of a honky-tonk, a plan was hatched for espionage and only the watchful eyes of the taxidermy bore witness.

* * *

Her annual physical revealed she was in perfect health.

Jill, gratified to discover she was "as healthy as a horse" and weighed a svelte one-hundred-and-twenty-three pounds, was fielding a phone call from the office about some information rolling in from Europe. The early intel suggested activity in rural Spain that was suspicious. There were reports of villagers acting "spontaneously violent" and "showing signs of inhuman strength".

A small contingent of agents was going to be sent to scout out the potential information once a drop point was coordinated.

They were waiting on coordinating intel from USSTRATCOM regarding the threat level to US interests regarding the drop.

The nurse patted her arm and took the tubes of blood to a tray. "Just need to get your test results in a few days, and we can give you the all clear to return to active duty."

Jill nodded, smiling absently at her as she answered Barry, "How long do they need?"

"You know how government-run operations are, Valentine. Could take weeks. You want me to put some pressure on the White House? We've got contacts in the secret service over there."

"Right. Ryman?"

"Yep. Turns out failing to get into S.T.A.R.S. was the best thing to ever happen to him. He's in charge of President Graham's detail now."

"I heard. A huge deal for him." She stepped out the elevator, hitting the button for the lobby. "See if he can find out what the hold up is on that end. Why won't they let us hit the ground running there?"

"Who knows. Red tape of some kind. One bureaucratic hand wiping the wrong ass. You know how it goes."

"I do," The doors pinged, "There's never the right hand under the right skirt when you need it."

A fascinating moment.

Because the hand that had recently been under her skirt was just outside the elevator doors in six hundred dollar Oakley's and a fantastic pair of cowboy boots. What happened? The same thing that always happened to her when she saw him, she was pretty sure her tummy went up into her throat and lodged there.

"...you know what Barry? I may have a faster option. Let me get back to you."

"Sweet."

They clicked off and Jill stopped the doors from closing and eased out.

The second floor of the hospital was earmarked for government officials. Why was he there?

She followed his fantastically retreating ass (seriously who looked that good in jeans?). The black button down he wore was left open with four buttons to reveal the incredible chiseled perfection of his chest. You could almost glimpse that wolf on his shoulder. You could see the Gibson on his arm without any trouble. The belt buckle was chunky and flattering. His rangey frame looked like it was MADE for Texas. In typical fashion, he rocked casual in a way that said he ate fashion for breakfast.

Jill felt clunky and stupid in her little denim jacket, dark blue sundress, and knee-high teal cowboy boots. She felt all kinds of funky Texan when she'd dressed. Now? She felt like the girl who shopped at Target and was chasing a guy down Fifth Avenue in New York City.

As she got closer, she saw the pretty hand embroidered treble sign above the pocket of his shirt and over the shoulder. Probably stitched in London or some shit by a pretty lady name Madge.

He stopped to talk to someone in the lobby, giving Jill the opportunity to catch up to him finally.

His hand lifted, the watch on his wrist was worth more than her motorcycle, and he tucked hair behind his ear. There it was, she thought, the smile. It made the girl in front of him pause and laugh. She touched his chest. She put her hand to her collarbone and sparkled big blue eyes.

She was all boobs and good humor.

Her hand dropped, it lingered on his right biceps. He said something and winked. And big boobs McGee with him giggled.

Jill, surprisingly, felt a strange rush of...what? What was it?

It made her brain feel fuzzy.

She was chasing him for a reason here. What was it?

She was having trouble remembering.

Big Boobs rolled her lower lip under and glanced at his mouth and Jill?

She realized what the burn in her mouth was after all. Jealousy.

Well...SHIT.

That was just great. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. She was jealous. And it irritated her.

He turned his head, saw her, and glanced back at the girl with him. She watched the surprise shoot across his face as he did a double take and looked back across the lobby at her. She lifted her hand to...what? Wave like some idiot?

And a fat guy in a suit ran into her.

It was almost like fate was fucking with her.

He bumped her with his enormous hip in the crowded lobby. Jill was sort of unceremoniously slung sideways and stumbled. She had a moment to think, "You are not fucking serious here." And she hit the edge of the enormous fountain.

Her boot kicked out, fatty made a grab to catch her, missed, and down she went.

Right into the fountain.

Sideways.

She went sideways into a fountain filled with quarters in a hospital lobby in Texas.

Why?

She was watching Leon Kennedy's ass and hating the girl giggling up at him.

Jealousy - the thing that finally took down Jill Valentine.

The water wasn't deep, thank god, but it was deep enough to soak her jack and the skirt of her dress before she could scramble up. Fatty was sputtering an apology at her. Jill rose, dripping, ankle deep in the cool water - and the utterly amused faces of Leon Kennedy and Big Boobs McGee were suddenly there looking at her.

Leon put a hand out for her but Jill ignored it and climbed out of the fountain.

Tongue in cheek, he mused, "You alright?"

"Sure. I'm fine." She glanced at Big Boobs, "Sorry to bomb your date, I actually was trying to catch you with a work question. Turns out, I shouldn't ever run in cowboy boots. It's like inviting bad juju."

Amused, Leon watched her drip on the ground, "Let's get you somewhere to dry off here. Jill, this is Jessica Sherawat. We were in the Panic together. She's actually here for her physical."

Oh.

OH.

Jill blinked. She shook her head and put her hand out. "You came over to the BSAA from the FBC."

Jessica nodded, smiling around way too many white teeth, "I did. You were on assignment so I interviewed with O'Brian and Redfield."

Naturally.

Oy.

Leave it to men to hire a barbie doll.

"Right. You're partnering with Chris on that mission to Norway."

"Yep." Jessica studied her, "No offense. But they said you usually pair with him. Should I ask why it's me instead?"

Jill shrugged a little and followed them out of the lobby into the sunny little entrance garden just outside the main doors. She moved to sit on the stone bench beneath a blooming pretty red cypress. "You need to train on pairs missions. You're with Chris for the initial periods of it. No one better. Pay attention and he'll teach you everything you need to do well in the organization. I'm taking Parker Luciani under my wing for the same reason."

Jessica grinned, wide, "Parker is a good friend of mine. It was his suggestion to switch teams after Terragrigia. Lansdale can't hold it together. We figure it will disband entirely soon enough."

Jill nodded, confirming the gossip on her end, "We're picking at the bones right now, honestly. Any good agents will be snapped up quickly."

Jessica rubbed Leon's arm again and Jill felt her face tighten. "This guy here? I tried to get him to hire me. But he says the security clearance just for an interview takes months."

Leon nodded, winking again, "They'll be up your ass worse than a sand flea too, honestly. You can't take a dump without somebody watching you in the beginning."

Jessica giggled.

Jill almost rolled her eyes.

Wow.

Sheesh. She was a bitch. She really was. She hated this woman on sheer principle. It was an interesting feeling consider Jessica was very polite and very beautiful and clearly came highly recommended from the FBC. What was it about her that set off alarm bells?

The flirting?

Maybe.

She flirted with anything. It was well known. She was the Leon Kennedy female equivalent. She flirted with everyone. It was another reason she was with Chris. He was the only guy in the whole BSAA who'd be immune to it. She could flash a tit, bend over and grab her ankles and waggle her ass in his face, and beg him to fuck her stupid and he'd yawn. He just didn't shit where he ate.

Ever.

Neither did Jill...usually.

USUALLY.

When stupid shaggy-haired hotties weren't dragging her into bathrooms to bone her against the sink, of course.

Jessica glanced at her watch and squeaked, "Shit!" She sounded adorable saying it. Which made Jill hate her more. Somehow. "I'm late. Nice meeting you, Jill."

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to Leon's cheek. "See ya later handsome. I'm in town for a few days. Call me ok?"

She rushed off and had Jill staring blandly at Leon.

He glanced back at her and tilted his head, "What?"

"...nothing." Jill rose, "I'm soaked. Walk me back to my hotel to change."

"Happy to." They headed through the small square to the sideway. "Wanna tell me what that puss you're wearing is all about?"

"...I'm not wearing any kind of puss." And she laughed a little, "Terrible word by the way."

"Don't be a dirty girl, Jill Valentine." He considered as they walked, "Or do. You want me to talk dirty to you?"

"No thanks. Jessica clearly does though."

"No, she doesn't. She wants me to fuck her while she screams. No talking necessary."

She tripped.

Naturally, of course, she did, she tripped. Because her embarrassment wasn't complete.

She tripped on uneven pavement and nearly went down. But he caught her, laughing lightly, and tucked her against his side instead.

Jill went stiff.

And Leon said, "Relax, Jill. I'm not fucking her. I never even touched her."

"..it's...I'm-uh..it's not my business anyway. I didn't ask. I don't-what are you doing there?"

He turned her a little into him. "Saying hi."

"...in the street!?" Now she squeaked. It didn't sound nearly as cute as Jessica Sherawat had. It sounded like a leaky balloon or something. Her hands came up and pressed on his chest.

"Yep. Want me to stop?"

"It's-I-...you...what?" She tugged him down and took his laughing mouth.

A simple little kiss. Harmless.

Nothing at all to concern eager eyes or potential spies or other guys or...why was she rhyming?! What the hell was wrong with her?

She let go of his mouth and whispered, hoarsely, "You'll get wet."

His face.

It just lit up. "Oh...I have no doubt about that."

Her face was on fire. It was...she was feeling lightheaded again. And he added, "I like you wet, Jill."

What a disgusting pervert he was.

Seriously.

He was a horrible lecherous flirt.

Awful.

In public!? Who talked like that?!

Her mouth said, "I might need help getting out of these clothes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You should come upstairs and help me dry off."

"Hmm." He rubbed their noses, "I don't know, I think I should get wet with you instead."

Her mouth answered, no missed beats at all, a harsh whisper, "I don't think I'll be dry for long. And then I think we'll get wet together."

Her brain said: #$% ! Because apparently, she was a big pervy tramp who talked like a two dollar whore in public too.

He grunted when she got his chest a little with her nails while she said. His eyes were so hot she thought she might melt in the Texas sun. And he rasped, low and swirling, "Deal. Now?"

"...oh yeah, yes. Come upstairs with me."

"Leon. Come upstairs with me, Leon."

She laughed, she rubbed his chest under his shirt. ON THE STREET. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY.

LORD.

And whispered, "Leon."

"Jill."

"Let's go upstairs."

"I would love to."

He kissed her again for it. And it was NOT a public kiss. It was a whole lot of tongue.

They made it to the elevator and spent ten floors pawing each other like teenagers. She tried three times to key card her way into her room and cursed, kicking the door with red-faced frustration.

He laughed, took the card, swiped it once and kicked the door open.

He tugged off her wet jacket. She kicked off her wet boots.

It was belts and boots and sighing denim.

Against the wall where it started, on the floor where it finished. She was someone else in his arms, entirely. She couldn't get the fuck out of bed with him. She was often called The Robot. She was cold. She was calculating. She was commanding. She was bored to the point of being a yawn away from falling asleep with men and their bullshit.

She was a mess with him. Giggling and red-faced and rutting.

She didn't want to wait for him to lose the pants and simply fucked him on the floor with his jeans open. She could almost stand outside herself and watch them. Like a mystery, she couldn't understand. His shirt open and flapping around them. Her dress bunched around her waist.

It was impossibly hot.

Every fucking time.

Fucking was about right too. They seemed to be stuck on each other or something.

She put her teeth against the wolf on his shoulder and tried to eat him. He angled her body to him and used her until she was dead or something.

She was a whore in his arms, clearly. A wild thing. The lady was a tramp with Leon Kennedy.

Jill came so fast it was little more than minutes. He was with her, hitching her up to finish in her while she swallowed his grunt with her mouth.

They collapsed together, gasping.

And she whispered, "...holy hell..."

He laughed, kissed her breathless, brushed his finger lightly over her dewy groin and rolled off her. Shivering, Jill sat up, watching him. He zipped up, dipped down, and scooped her into his arms. She let him, watching his face as he took her into the bedroom and sat her on the bed.

Curious, she watched him dig in her suitcase.

"...um...what's going on there?"

Leon said, "Dinner. I'm taking you to it. Usually, I take a girl out before I hammer her into the floor, but you and I seem to be a little backward here."

Jill considered this as he handed her a change of clothing. He was right.

They were entirely chemical here. It was physical and incredible and freeing. She liked being with him. She enjoyed his laughter and his flirting and his desperate fucking. Why did she keep panicking about it?

There was nothing wrong with it.

And yet in their profession, she'd be ostracized like a pariah if the word got out. Persona non grata. Excommunicado. She'd be cast off as Leon Kennedy's flavor of the month.

A bullshit double standard.

So, she said, "I'd rather order in and stay here."

Curious, he looked at her, "Embarrassed to be seen with a man whore?"

Jill laughed, shaking her head, "Nope. Not that at all I just..."

He shifted toward her and she caught his waistband to tug him down to her. They kissed, smooth and sloppy and long. And she whispered, "I just want to do that. And stay here. And not share you. Is that...I don't know...stupid or something?"

Leon answered her with a laugh. "You kidding? Let's get wet, Jill Valentine."

They played in the hot tub in her room. They ordered in greasy burgers. They stayed naked.

As the evening wore on, she finally took him out. They ended up at a hole in the wall line dancing and eating jalapeno poppers.

A curious thing was that neither of them drank.

Not a drop.

Apparently, they were drunk on each other or something.

They kissed like two crazy things in the alley outside the bar.

Who was she?

She wasn't Jill Valentine with him. She was someone else. There was no bioterror or world ending madness. There was no zombies or death here. Just two people dancing, laughing, and fucking. It was...the first time in years she felt like the girl who'd once worn a beret and gone into that station to change the world.

Against the bricks, swallowing his tongue, she knew anyone could see them. Anyone.

And she didn't care.

She didn't WANT to care.

He put his hand up her skirt in the cab on the way back. She went up and came down, grabbing his wrist to hold him against her. Tawdry. Dirty.

Delicious.

She put her mouth all over him at the hotel. Like some desperate thing. She bobbed on his lap in the moonlight like she'd devour him whole.

They rolled over the floor together and merged. They laughed and watched late night t.v. stuck together.

Her fingers trailed over the wolf on his shoulder and against the Gibson on his arm. And he rolled her up to sit her between his legs and show her a few chords on the tattoo. She tried to pay attention to the placement of her fingers on his arm but she was too busy watching his face while he talked.

"Here, here, here...A." She let him lay her fingers on his arm. She was still enraptured by his face. He spoke and had her staring.

When he realized she wasn't looking at his arm, he glanced at her face. Quietly, he stroked a thumb over her chin, "What?"

Jill pressed her mouth to his, gently.

It was a little scary.

Her hand shifted to his face. His curled around her and the other settled against her throat to hold her.

She kissed him, eyes open, watching his reaction. And she whispered, "I like you."

A funny thing to say. Simple.

And probably the first real time she'd ever said to a man.

He smiled, tender, and made her tingle with it. "I like you too. You wanna be the only girl I like, Jill Valentine?"

She was so serious. He wondered what she was thinking. She didn't smile back. She seemed to be trying to see into his soul or something. "Maybe. Tell me what that means."

Ok.

He breathed. He stopped trying to be flirty. He scooped her bangs back to really look at her. "I think that means we stop fucking in hotel rooms and bathrooms and try being grown-ups about this."

She looked so sad that he kissed her again. And added, "So maybe we still fuck in bathrooms. But we also go to dinner. And we don't care who sees us."

SHEESH.

That's exactly what it meant.

She wasn't ready.

The second he said it, she knew she wasn't ready to take it public with him. Nope. Never. Nada.

And yet?

She whispered, "I need to know about the man-whore thing. Seriously. No joking. No flirting. I need to know how much of that is true."

He tilted his head, watching her in the dark, "I've had plenty of women, Jill. And I haven't liked most of them. Some of them I downright loathed. I like you. I'm not interested in other women. I think about you all the time. I miss you when you're gone."

She nodded, stroking the line of his jaw, "Me too. So...together?"

"Is that what you want?"

She kissed him, smooth and sinking. They did so for several minutes, enjoying the shift of sweetness between them.

And she said, "I think, yes, I think I want that. But I need to ask you something first. And I don't want you to think it's a favor for a fuck buddy or anything."

Curious, he kissed her again, "Ok. What?"

"I need to get men into Spain. The President has us cockblocked. I don't need you to break confidentiality by telling me a damn thing. I just need to know if you can get the ban lifted so I can put men in the region."

He studied her in the low lights. She shifted and traced his belly with her hand, "Not asking for pillow talk, Leon. Or for you to compromise your clearance or your position. I just need a little help to investigate rumors in that area. I can, entirely, ask another source. But you have to tell me to do that first. It's totally fine if you do. I just needed to ask."

He shook his head, turning her in his arms again so she could play with his forearm and practice the chords he'd taught her, "Not feeling pressured or anything by that, Jill, so just we're clear here. But I can't help you. Not yet."

She nodded against his chest.

"Not for the reasons you think. I have to go in first."

She turned her head to look at him.

"Yeah. I'm leaving in the morning. Things have been unstable since Saddler went down. I need to make sure the cult is finished there. Let me do that, and I'll get back to you in a few days with the clearance you need."

She nodded again, stroking his arm. "Thank you. What's your gist of the problem?"

He considered his answer, carefully, and went with his gut on the truth. "A splinter cell of Umbrella, messing with the Plagas."

"Yes. I thought the same. Wong?"

He shook his head, kissing her neck a little, "No. Ada got what she was after. This feels more local than that. I think pieces of the European branch that didn't go down with the lab in Paris."

"What Chris was chasing in Antarctica?"

"Maybe." He snuggled around her back and had her leaning on him, "I'll take Claire with me and some TerraSave units in case there's a cleanup effort involved. I'll get in touch when I know more. The political climate there is rough. Throwing the BSAA in could upset the delicate balance. Just a few days for me to be sure."

"Ok." She turned her head, "Thank you."

"Sure." He met her eyes and cupped a breast, weighing it. Her body softened in his arms, blending, "Same side here, Jill. We're on the same side."

She turned her mouth to let him kiss her, "How about inside, Leon Kennedy? You want to be inside?"

He rolled her in his arms to answer her.

The only place he'd felt safe in so long was here, here, inside of Jill Valentine.

* * *

He woke her up to say goodbye.

A long kiss, clutching her against him in a tangle of sheets. She'd never seen him before in gear.

The tactical vest, the gloves, the holsters and the weapons.

The warrior.

It suited him almost as much as jeans and cowboy boots. As a designer suit with Italian leather loafers. As the tattoos on his lithely muscled body as she leaned over her to love her naked and beautiful in the dark.

A chameleon. He was so many things.

She was so wrapped up in him.

She wanted to play with all the pieces that made him and see how they fit into the puzzle of her life.

She whispered, softly, "I'll miss you."

They clung for a moment and he answered, "I'll call you in a few days. I miss you already, kid."

And he left her laying in the sheets with the scent of him.

Sighing, she heard her phone beep with an email.

She rolled over to check it. Her doctor emailing her blood test results.

No infections. Nothing to worry about.

But she wasn't cleared for field duty.

Surprised, she sat up in the sheets to scan the results.

She wasn't cleared for active duty without consulting with her OBGYN first.

Because she didn't have any infections in her blood.

But she had a parasite in her belly.

The blood test said she was healthy as a horse...and pregnant.


	9. Chapter 9

**PART ONE: INTO THE DEPTHS**

* * *

**Episode 9: No (S)Exit**

* * *

There were more decisions than she was ready to make. More feelings than she was ready to tackle. She pressed a hand to her naked belly, staring at her reflection in the glass.

Jill dropped the little hospital gown down to cover her.

The door wiggled and opened.

Yoko Suzuki stepped in, grinning. "Jill."

"Yoko." They embraced, laughing.

The pretty Japanese doctor had escaped Raccoon City on the longest night. She'd fled with a handful of other survivors. It was a bond that kept them in touch.

But friendship kept them close.

Yoko gestured to the table and Jill climbed up on it, feeling the nervous flutter of butterflies in her belly. It was time to face the music here. It was time to make a decision.

But first?

Yoko moved the little wand over belly, clicking keys on the computer before her.

She glanced at Jill as they made small talk. How are you? What's new? What's life like?

Yoko had married one of the other survivors of the outbreak shortly after fleeing. She and the plumber, David King, had welcomed three children in the six years since they'd survived and managed to fall in love over that one long night.

Yoko was thrilled to find Jill finally expecting her own bundle of joy.

But the former thief looked ill at the idea of it.

Curious, Yoko measured the baby on the screen and took recordings. "Any nausea?"

"No." Jill shook her head, staring at the ceiling.

"Mood swings?"

Jill laughed lightly, "Well, this morning I cried when I dropped my car keys in my coffee. That's a first. I got so horny watching Grey's Anatomy last night that I thought about humping a pillow with a picture of Derek Shepherd on it."

Yoko laughed and rubbed her knee a little, "I remember, quite well. I was so bad with my second baby that David likes to joke that I didn't let him out of bed for three months."

She clicked keys to add more measurements.

And Yoko added, "What about the baby's father? Is he in the picture?"

Jill laughed again, looking a little misty. "It's new. Really new. It…" She hesitated and went with truth here, "It was a one night stand at first."

There.

It was out there now.

She waited for the judgment. But Yoko just winked at her and said, "So was David the first time."

Jill laughed, hiccupping a little as the first tears broke out. "Oh…LORD. Sorry. Sorry. God damn hormones."

Yoko laughed and leaned back on the stool, "At first?"

"Yeah. Hah. So…we kept running into each other. I don't know…I don't—I couldn't stop, ya know? He's…and I…and the sex….the  _sex…_ oh lord the sex…like a fucking addict."

Yoko sighed with envy. "I remember those days too. Can't keep your hands off each other. Can't get outta bed. So you just…absorb each other."

Jill nodded, teary eyed, "I don't know what we are to each other. This though? I think this will kill it."

Curious, Yoko studied her face, "Oh…oh honey. He doesn't know?"

Jill shook her head, "No. NO. You kidding? With what we do? He's…he's got a bit of a reputation…apparently. He's a ladies man."

Yoko grinned a little and couldn't stop the laugh, "Jill?"

Jill sat up, wiping her cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Again, so did David." Yoko rubbed her knee, "Give him a chance. He might surprise you."

Now it was time for the inevitable question. The hard one. They held eyes and Yoko queried, "What are you thinking of doing with the baby?"

Jill shifted on the table. She glanced at her hands, "I can't have a baby, Yoko. With what we do? I can't. Right?"

Yoko lifted her hand and raised three fingers. "That's what I have, Jill. Three of them. Who am I to say what we can or can't have? But my husband's a plumber."

Jill nodded, sighing, "I always thought someday, ya know? When I was done with all this. When I was in a nice safe job. But now? Like this? The father and I…we just met. We don't even know the other's favorite color."

Yoko mused, "….pretty sure he knows it's blue. Everyone knows that."

Jill laughed and sighed. "I don't know what I want. Not yet. But I know I don't want to pressure him. So…for now…I'm just gonna go with it…"

Yoko nodded and lifted the little print out from the machine. She offered it, "It's your choice, Jill. Entirely. But your baby is healthy. Everything looks fantastic. You're about sixteen weeks based on your measurements and the date of your last period…"

Yoko trailed off and went with her gut, "You want to know the sex?"

Jill laughed, shaking her head, "Oh, I know the sex. That's how I ended up with the baby."

Laughing, Yoko studied her, "I've seen a lot of pregnant women, Jill. A lot. Some of them happy, some of them surprised, all of them unprepared. For a woman who wasn't ready, I'm gonna tell you the truth here."

Jill looked at her.

"You seem ok to me. You seem good. And you don't seem like a woman contemplating an abortion."

Jill studied her face in the mirror again. She looked at her curling hair and sighed, "I'm not. That part isn't happening. I just don't know if I'm ready to be a mother either."

Yoko nodded, smiling softly. "'Ask me if I am either. The answer is still no."

Jill laughed and finished dressing. She moved toward the door. She glanced at the little sonogram in her hand and paused, "….is it…I mean…a boy?"

Yoko rolled in a circle on her stool. She smiled again, "What do you think?"

Jill looked at the little lump on the black and white image. She touched it with a fingertip. "….I think it's a boy."

Yoko grinned, flashing white, white teeth. "…it is indeed. It's your son, Jill. The question you have to ask yourself is if you want to raise him or not. Pretty sure the answer, like that baby, is already in you. You just have to be honest about it."

Jill stared at the little picture and sighed.

Her phone jingled. The number was his.

The baby was his.

The answer wasn't nearly as simple.

She picked it up, sighing, "Valentine."

"You wanna be mine?"

She laughed, leaning on the wall to listen to him. Shit, she thought angrily, he even gave good phone. His voice was silky and low. Sexy.

"It's May."

He chuckled. "It's never too late for romance, kid. Besides, with a name like Valentine – I'd think you'd be open to it all year round."

Jill shook her head, charmed. "You have good news for me?"

Leon chuckled again, "Yep. Send in the clowns, darlin. The cult is showing signs of reemergence but it's containable. The BSAA should be able to help squash a rebellion of it before it gets too much traction."

"Great. Awesome. Thank you, Leon. Seriously."

"You bet."

He was quiet for a long moment. She listened, waiting.

And finally, he said, "It's ok to say I miss you right?"

Lord.

She put a hand to her mouth and leaned on the wall. "It's not, actually. This is a work call. Professional. I think."

He laughed, lightly, "Touché. So, we'll pretend I said I miss your skill set. And I would think it would be useful on this particular mission."

"Oh? What skillset is that?"

Without missing a beat, he mused, "Your rear defense, clearly."

Tongue in cheek, she laughed, "Oh?"

"Oh, yeah. You're known to be good at covering someone's ass."

"Am I?"

"Hmm. Yep. I could return the favor, of course."

She couldn't stop the blush. It made her a little dizzy. "Hmm. You offering to cover my ass?"

His laugh was breathy and made her ache for him a little. "Ah. Hah. Yep. Yes. Absolutely. Anytime you want. Like…eighty five times a day."

Jill giggled and hated herself. A little. Because she was pretty nuts about him. And hated that too.

"You asking me to drop my plans here and show up there?"

"…yep. Yes. Yes, I am. What do you say? The food is crap. We live in tents and there's no outdoor plumbing. I haven't bathed in a week or so, so we won't be able to touch without nose plugs, but it might be worth it? Maybe?"

Jill laughed again, sighing.

She paused, considering.

But she wasn't cleared for active duty yet.

Seeing as she was gestating a life form. His. His parasite.

LORD.

Jill said, quietly, "I'll see what I can do."

"…awesome. I gotta hit the bricks here but…nice flirting with you, Jill Valentine."

She laughed and clicked off.

* * *

It was a brief phone call that came through in the early morning.

It was an easy mission to Spain.

He waited, watching the bodies alight from the helicopter.

Chris Redfield emerged with Jessica Sherawat in tow and Parker Luciani.

But no Jill.

No Jill.

She hadn't come.

Leon rolled the matchstick in his mouth and felt the hard sting of rejection.

He kicked over the barrel of rice beside him and leaped off the table where he sat.

Apparently, she had better things to do. Help me out, Leon, she'd asked. And then?

She didn't even bother to show up.

Instead of dwelling on it, he took the disappointment and turned back to face the mission.

Her lose, entirely, and his for throwing it out there. Who was he kidding here? She was drawing a line in the sand on what they meant.

It was up to him where he wanted to stand on it.

* * *

The crazy thing about all of it, was that she avoided him.

He couldn't pin it on her, specifically, but she was definitely making strides to be where he wasn't.

He came back from Spain, she was curiously absent from the BSAA HQ when he went there to share the debriefing with Redfield and the rest.

He went to her place, she was mysteriously "away on business" according to the nice girl sitting there taking care of her cat.

He called her and got her voicemail.

He left a message.

Three weeks later and he hadn't received a call back.

There was one thing he wasn't: the type of guy to keep calling a girl who was clearly sending the message it was over.

The question was why? Why was it over?

It felt weird. It felt unfinished. It felt anticlimactic.

It was odd.

Leon was in D.C. meeting with O'Brian regarding an upcoming potential attaché mission with the BSAA, when he managed to luck into Claire and Rebecca Chambers having lunch together at DiMaggio's downtown.

There was a lot of laughter, some wine and plenty of good ciabatta bread, and a very, very, very careful avoidance of any discussion regarding Jill Valentine.

Claire left the table to use the restroom and Leon tapped one leather boot on the ground, eyeing the girl scientist across from him. She avoided his direct stare, people watching from their outdoor table where they sat together.

He mused, quietly, "What do you know?"

Rebecca shifted her gaze around and laughed a little, too high and nervous, "About what? What? I don't know anything."

Leon studied her pixie face, curious. Rebecca laughed again, squeaking a little, "What? What's that face? What? I don't know anything."

Leon lifted a brow. He said nothing.

Rebecca felt like she was on trial for war crimes and facing a firing squad in Quantico or something. She shifted in her seat. She squeaked, "I don't know anything! Stop…looking at me."

His arm was draped over the back of the chair beside him. He drummed his fingers absently. He arched his brow higher.

And Rebecca hissed, "Stop grilling me to death! It won't make me talk."

He nearly laughed.

He did.

Because he hadn't said a word.

Rebecca squirmed in her seat. Why were his eyes so blue? It was stupid. He looked at you with twin lasers or something. It was like he was burning away her skin to see into her soul or something cheesy like that.

Rebecca gave him a dirty look. "You like intimidating girls, you big meanie?"

He said nothing.

Rebecca picked up her fork and pointed it at him, harshly. "Say something! Speak!"

Leon shrugged a shoulder at her.

Using her fork, infuriated, Rebecca poked her plate of pasta with a vengeance.

She muttered, angrily, "I can't tell you anything. Really. I can't. What do I know? Nothin. Just rumors. What good is a rumor? As good as Monopoly money man. NO GOOD. Useless. Stupid."

Finally, Leon spoke, "What's the rumor, Rebecca? Spill the beans."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Rumors are how bad guys get good intel, Leon. We both know that. Someone spread rumors about Raccoon City back in the day."

Leon nodded a little, "They did. Too bad no one listened. Sometimes? Rumors are true."

Damnit.

She put down her fork. She picked up a piece of bread. She held his gaze.

Claire was coming back from the bathroom now.

She started to take her seat and Rebecca squeaked, "Jill is pregnant."

Claire missed her seat.

She ended up on her ass on the floor, shouting, "REBECCA! WHAT THE HELL!"

Leon put a hand down to help Claire up. It was reactionary. It was entirely automatic. He was, otherwise, frozen where he sat.

Claire sat down in her seat and turned toward him. She gripped his knees and squeezed, "It's just a rumor, Leon. A rumor. No one can prove it. Jill hasn't said that directly. It's a rumor."

Leon glanced at her face. He rose, dropping some cash on the table. He glanced at Rebecca.

She looked a little ill.

He nodded, laughing mirthlessly, "Right. RIGHT. Like Raccoon City was a rumor, huh? Shit. Where is she?"

Claire shifted.

Rebecca stared at point two inches over his left shoulder.

Damn these women. Why did they always circle the wagons to protect each other? He wasn't an enemy or a stalker or a pervy ex-boyfriend here. It was pissing him off.

He kicked the table and startled both of them when it rattled their drinks and plates atop it.

Claire looked a little nervous. "Don't be stupid, Leon. Don't."

"Claire, I swear to god, just tell me where to find her."

Claire gnawed her lips, saying nothing.

And Rebecca squeaked, "She's in Sante Fe."

"REBECCA!" Claire shouted it, "You must SUCK at interrogation!"

Rebecca jumped and shrugged, "I'm sorry, Claire! I'm sorry. I am. But he has a right to know."

Claire shook her head, looking angry. "Don't go after her, Leon. I mean it. Let her come to you about it. What if it is, literally, just a rumor?"

He was already climbing into a cab.

Claire kicked Rebecca under the table and had her yelping.

"Solidarity, Rebecca. Solidarity. Sisters before misters remember?"

Rebecca sighed and kinda wished she was a mister sometimes instead.

Under her breath, she muttered, "It's his baby too…sheesh."

Claire gave her a long look. "You don't even know that there's a baby at all, Rebecca! You just fed him rumors!"

And Rebecca sighed, "….I shoulda been born a dude."

* * *

**Santa Fe, New Mexico**

Sangre de Christo meant blood of Christ in Spanish.

It was the southernmost edge of the Rocky Mountains that branched down into the outskirts of Sante Fe, New Mexico.

It was red now as the sun began to set above it.

It was red because of the alpenglow, the light cast upon the world by the greatest spill of gold in the horizon, offering a beautiful hue to the eager when the world went dark and when it rose again to greet the day.

Jill stood on the highest point of her hike, watching it set.

She leaned there studying it, curiously. It was beautiful. It really was. It was all so beautiful.

Her hand touched her flat belly.

What did beautiful really mean here? Did it mean giving birth to the baby in her belly? Did it mean raising him alone? Did it mean giving up the fight for a normal life?

How beautiful could their life be if she wasn't even sure that she wanted him?

She wasn't even sure how she felt about the man who'd put him in her belly, let alone the life they'd created.

How did she feel about Leon?

She was so painfully attracted to him. She couldn't stand five feet from him without losing her mind. Her hand was in his pants so much it was like his dick was a permanent fixture to her palm.

She was interested in him. He was charming without being cold. He was warm and soft and kinda lost. He was so very multifaceted, like a diamond, he kept her intrigued at the same time he kept her enthralled.

She liked him. Flat out, no lie about it, she liked him. He was funny. He was inherently tender. He was looking for purpose in a job that was all fight and no answers. He was good in his bones, this man who wanted to keep a little girl he'd just met.

He'd want the baby.

The moment she thought it, she considered what that meant.

He'd want the baby.

She knew that as much as she knew her name.

He'd raise it alone if he had to. What if…she had the baby and gave it to him? No strings. No pressure. No hard feelings.

That was possible right?

To simply bow out of being his mother?

It wasn't as common as men running away, but it happened.

Or maybe they raised the baby together in a weird modern idea of a family. They lived apart, they were sorta friends, and they raised this kid together. It could work.

What if she told him about the baby…and he gave up the fight?

She stopped, frozen for a moment.

What if he gave up the fight?

The man who was the best thing to happen to the fight against bioterror since the beginning. The Ghost. The Executioner. The guy who single handedly stopped the Ganado and started the good guys on the side of winning. The reason they had data on Wesker and the Organization and hope, finally, of making a dent in the war they'd been fighting for six years.

What if he stopped fighting to raise this kid?

What became of the fight?

Could they do it without him?

She'd talked him out of retiring. He was on the edge of wanting something more. He wanted more. Was this what it would take to send him over? Would he simply bow out of the battle for a normal life?

She'd be the girl who put Leon S. Kennedy into retirement.

She'd be the girl who lost them their greatest weapon.

Chris wouldn't like knowing it, of course, but it didn't make it any less true. Kennedy was the wave of what came after the bullets and the blood ended. Chris was a tank. He'd roll until he smashed his opponents flat.

But Kennedy had the moves on the battlefield and in the boardroom…and in the bedroom. Her mind shook like a dog out of water to get itself back on track. But he had it. Charisma and charm and brains and guts. He was going to work in conjunction with the money and the drive and the power to make the battle theirs. She just KNEW it.

There was something beyond USSTRATCOM for him. There was POWER. He was going to be something important.

He'd never get there if she handed him a little lump with his face on it and he quit fighting.

She couldn't tell him.

She couldn't NOT tell him either. That was would make her a big bitch.

She needed time to digest what the right answer was here.

There was a crumbling sound of rock and she turned, poised in the setting sun.

She was out of time.

Because he was standing there in his hiking gear watching her.

Oh god.

He set his pack on the ground beside hers. Gray cargo pants and a skinny little zip up wet weather top in dark green. His hair was covered, the first time she'd ever seen it that way, by a little beanie cap in gray. He tucked his sunglasses up on his head to look at her.

Jill stared back at him, feeling the tremor of fear in her guts. What was the right answer here?

She needed more time.

He said, quietly, "You've been hiding from me."

She shook her head, watching the sunset reflected in the husky blue of his eyes. He was so painfully gorgeous. It hurt her head.

"Not exactly. I've been busy."

"Yeah. I heard." He took a sip of his water bottle, "Busy gestating?"

Jesus.

He wasn't a man with tact sometimes.

She was out of time.

Her mouth said, "Not that I'm aware of. You come all this way to chase a rumor?"

So, she was going to lie apparently. She was that girl. She was lying about it. She was putting the fight before her own personal feelings.

She was leaving him in it to be their champion.

She would give the baby up for adoption.

That was it.

That's what was going to happen.

She'd made her choice.

"No. I came all this way to see you. I'm not this guy, Jill. I'm not the guy who chases girls. I kinda hate you for it."

Jill felt herself laugh, breathily, "Makes two of us. I had to stay away from you."

"Why?"

"To prove that I could."

He studied her in the low shadowed sunlight. It dappled her face beautifully.

And he replied, "You done proving it?"

"….yes."

"Good."

They studied each other in the dying daylight.

And she whispered, "So…maybe I missed you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me what you want here, Jill."

She licked her lips, shaking a little. "You. I want you. I just don't like it."

"Shit…that makes two of us, kid."

"I…I just…I don't know how I feel about you."

"You think there's a rule book for it? There's no procotol or mission parameters here, Jill. Just us. And just this. Whatever it is. It's messy. It's complicated….and the first time I've felt good about something in a long time. Stop analyzing it. And let it happen."

How long would it happen when he found out the truth?

She should just tell him. Just tell him the truth…and abort the baby.

Her heart hurt. Because she didn't want that either.

She didn't know what she wanted.

Well, that wasn't true either. She wanted Leon Kennedy. She knew that. That part was easy. But the rest of it wasn't. It wasn't easy. It was a mess.

And it would just get worse if she touched him again.

She needed to keep her hands to herself. And think clearly here.

She'd tell him that now, that they should take a break. Just a breather here. She would tell him to ease back for both their sakes. It was the right thing.

Her mouth said, "Put your hands on me."

He shifted toward her. She felt her body stiffen. She felt her blood quicken. She felt her groin tighten and her panties dampen. She dropped the little binoculars in her hands to reach for him.

He tugged her in to kiss her. It was needy and raw. It made the top of her head blow off and left her brains exposed and pulsing.

She'd lied to him. About his baby. About this.

Why?

Because she didn't know if they could win without him. And she didn't know if he'd stay in the battle with a baby waiting for him at home.

She didn't know if she was doing the right thing.

She just knew it was done.

This was done.

She couldn't change it now.

Her hands shifted under his top to stroke the chiseled planes of his belly. He tugged at the zipper of her jacket to get to her breasts.

And his hand skimmed over her belly toward her shorts.

The second he brushed her belly, she leaped back like he'd burned her.

Surprised, he kept a hold of her wrist. "Hey…hey hey…what?"

She shook her head and stepped back into him. She slid her arms around him in a hug and he echoed it, holding her. "You ok?"

She shook her head again, clinging a little.

She should tell him the truth.

And yet she said nothing in the view of the mountain stained red like blood.

It would be ok. It would. She just needed to stay out of bed with him until she figured out how to fix this.

How hard could it be?

…

She woke up in the middle of the night with his tongue inside her.

The moonlight spilled across the crown of his head between her thighs. The sheets spilled red like blood around him. The little nightgown she'd worn to bed was pushed up around thighs.

She was coming before she was even fully awake.

His hands skimmed up her belly and she jumped, bucking a little toward his mouth.

Would she never fail to do that?

Those hands found her breasts and rolled them in his palms.

She forgot anything but the sight of him, the smell of him, the feel of him.

She was never going to be able to do this.

She had to tell him the truth.

He slid up her body and she took him inside her on a shivering gasp.

Apparently, she wasn't telling him anything right now. She was going to keep doing this until she was so fat and pregnant he simply couldn't miss it.

The red silk sheets spilled down his back and left his hips and flanks bare. She rolled her head to watch him take her in the mirror beside the bed.

Beautiful, she thought madly as he drove sounds from her mouth that spurred him on, beautiful. He was magnificent. All sleek muscle and summer gold skin. She watched her pale hands slide down and grip his ass to pull him faster into her body.

She watched his face respond to the possessiveness of it and roll down to tongue one of her nipples through the cloth of her nightgown.

When that wasn't enough, he ripped the gown over her head to leave her bare beneath him.

Her eyes rolled back to his face above hers.

Tell him, her brain said, blurt it out right now.

Say it.

It's not that hard. It's just two words: I'm pregnant. Easy.

Say it and be done with it.

Her mouth gasped, softly, "Leon…harder."

Ok.

So…not the right words there at all.

The rhythm turned thunderous. He rode her body into the bed while she slapped toward him eagerly. They raced together toward the finish.

Her phone started ringing and he rolled her over to her belly.

She scrambled, she grabbed the headboard, and he took her to the edge as he plunged into her from behind. Sharper, deeper, fast – he curled against her back and tugged a handful of her hair to hold her to his plunging greed.

She grunted, she gasped, and she went – spurred on by the jingling of her phone.

He bit the side of her neck gently and pulled out of her to spill wet and sticky on her back.

Ah.

AH.

So…that was sign enough that the thought of pregnancy had panicked him.

He was more careful now.

She couldn't blame him. She should tell him thought, that it didn't matter anymore.

Instead, she reached for her phone.

He rolled her over to lie between her legs with his ear on her belly.

She wanted to panic.

What if he heard it in there!?

That was stupid. It was the size of a lima bean or something. He couldn't hear it….probably. He probably couldn't hear it. She wasn't a doctor. But it was probably impossible.

She put her phone to her ear, panting softly.

And his tongue slid over her belly, tasting her sweaty skin.

Jill gasped and petted his damp hair with her other hand. "Valentine."

He rubbed his chin against her mound, tantalizing her. She made a small sound of need.

And then her world collapsed on itself.

She went so still that Leon lifted his head to look at her face.

She wasn't flush with excitement anymore. She was frozen. She was pale. Concerned, he leaned up to watch her while she listened.

"….no. NO. No one else but me. Get Parker. And set it up."

She clicked off and Leon asked, softly, "What is it?"

Jill shook her head and rolled out from under him, "It's Chris. It's…he's lost..they're saying he's gone off the radar. They're saying he's gone."

And the only thing left behind, it seemed, was the horrible chill of fear that licked like the tongues of serpents in her belly.


End file.
